


Dive into the Light - Thancred x WoL

by ChaoticBluebird



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, final fantasy 14 - Fandom
Genre: Couple, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaoticBluebird/pseuds/ChaoticBluebird
Summary: A collection of one-shots, prompts, and drabbles for Thancred and my WoL, Phaedra.
Relationships: Female Warrior of light/Thancred Waters, Thancred Waters/Original Female Character(s), Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters, Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	1. Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Eremiss from a list on tumblr:
> 
> “I’m so proud of you, you know that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This definitely didn't go the way I intended it too, but I kind of like how it went....  
> So, there's that.

Celebrations are in full swing throughout the Crystarium as Thancred weaves his way through groups of people cheering and talking over one another. He blends in enough that very few of the celebrants give him a second glance. They don’t recognize him as one of the _‘Warriors of Darkness’_ without his coat and hefty armor. It certainly makes traversing the different locations easier when he isn’t stopped every few fulms to be slapped on the shoulder and offered a drink.

He’s not begrudging of the thanks; after all the fight with Vauthry and the final confrontation with Emet-Selch were not easy by any means. But he is focused on other things at the moment and being thanked for doing his duty - that is, preventing the Rejoining - is not necessary.

It’s a pleasant atmosphere though, he can admit that to himself. For the first time in the five years since his soul was pulled from his body and brought to the First, he can see smiles on almost all the faces around him. Everyone is laughing, or singing, or talking, or drinking. Alcohol is flowing freely, and everyone is taking part in the impromptu celebrations...

Except him. 

Urianger saw fit to remind Thancred of some of the less favorable decisions he’s made when under the influence. For this that reason, he’s been carrying around a tankard of water, and respectfully declining offers of anything stronger. He takes solace in the knowledge that in the morning when everyone else is nursing a hangover he, at the very least, will be clear headed and able to enjoy their suffering. 

His lack of recognizable attire is not for no reason. He’s had enough of the congratulations and the pats on the back for now. Shedding his white coat and armor allows him to move undeterred in the hopes of finding the woman of the hour, Phaedra; who has been conspicuously absent almost all night. It’s not unheard of for her to disappear. She doesn’t like being the center of attention, Thancred knows that as well as all the Scions do. But for her to not make even a brief appearance is a cause for concern. 

During his search, he has checked the Rookery, the Cabinet of Curiosities and the Crystalline Mean. No one has seen definitively seen her. People have _thought_ they saw her, but no one person he asks is entirely sure of what they saw. 

As he makes his way passed the Wandering Stairs, moving swiftly towards the Pendants to check her room, he stops when he catches sight of Y’shtola out of the corner of his eye. She is surrounded by members of the Night’s Blessed, who have left their woodland home in Slitherbough to engage in the celebrations. Runar is sticking close to Y’shtola; a fact that is of no surprise to Thancred. The gleam in the hrothgar’s eye is more fondness than merriment. It’s clear to anyone with eyes how deeply Runar has come to care for his Master Matoya... Whether those feelings are reciprocated, it is harder to glean. 

As Thancred approaches the group, Y’shtola’s ears flick to the sound of his steps and her head turns a moment later. She smiles, milky-white eyes bright and a flare of scarlet on her cheeks. 

“Thancred,” she rises off the stool where she is sitting. It’s clear she has been drinking with the Night’s Blessed, but is still coherent enough and steady enough not to need assistance in standing. “Join us!”

“Perhaps later,” he smiles. “I’m looking for the hero of the hour.”

“Phaedra?”

“Mhm.” He glances around the heads and faces that swarm the Wandering Stairs. If she _was_ here, he doubted he would be able to see her amongst the bodies. “I wondered if she was with you.”

“No,” Y’shtola’s ears move and twitch, picking up sounds out of Thancred’s own range of hearing. She looks one way, then the other, before tilting her head and looking skywards. “Have you checked above? You know how she enjoys the view from the walkway.”

“That was my next stop.” 

“I’ll keep an eye out. If I see her, I’ll tell her you were looking.” 

“My thanks, Y’shtola.” Thancred bows a little, and earns a smiles. “Do try not to have _too_ much fun with Runar, eh? I’m sure the poor fellow would appreciate being able to walk in the morning.” That earns him a smack on the arm as he hurriedly departs. He can feel Y’shtola glaring daggers into him, even as he disappears beyond the Wandering Stairs and towards the Plaza. 

The Atheryte Plaza is just as busy as every where else, but as Thancred ascends the steps to the walkway that traverses most of the Crystarium, it empties. There are people above. Couples standing together by the railing, a few people alone who stare up at the sky. He passes a family where a father lifts his daughter up and her hands reach out as if trying to grab the stars. The noise below becomes more of a dull murmur, and Thancred’s boots clang on the metal. He prefers it up here, out of the hustle and bustle. He can think. 

Y’shtola’s assumption is correct. He finds Phaedra sitting on the walkway above the Musica Universalis. She dangles one leg down over the edge of the platform, the other is bent and tucked beneath her and she’s leaning on one of the poles that line the railing at regular intervals. She is alone. The closest person is more than thirty fulms away. His approach alerts her to his presence and she tilts her head in his direction. Thancred gives a small wave before he comes to stop and sits beside her. 

He watches the movement below. The happiness is contagious. From up here he can see the laughter and the smiles more clearly. The joy is palpable. He can see Ryne with Alphinaud, Alisaie. The three of them are with younger denizens of the Crystarium. She’s flush and smiling bigger and broader than he’s ever seen. Urianger is close by, keeping a watchful eye on the three of them. It fills him with a sense of ease and contentment... and pride. 

Thancred hasn’t felt proud of anything he’s done in years. It’s a feeling that is incredibly foreign, but pleasant. 

“People are looking for you.” He says to Phaedra, breaking the silence. “They want to thank you.”

She shifts enough so that she leans against him, rather than the railing. For a heartbeat, Thancred is taken aback; then he settles an arm around her waist, tilts his head and rests his chin on her hair. 

“I know you don’t like being the center of attention,” he says pausing to kiss the crown of her head, “but don’t you think this is a little extreme?”

“I didn’t do anything deserving of thanks.” Phaedra shrugs.

Thancred snorts. “No, of course not. Just almost died while bringing back the night, preventing the Rejoining, destroying a tyrant, killing an Ascian _and_ finding the Exarch. But aside from all of that, no. You did nothing at all worth mentioning.” He levels her with an unimpressed look. She responds with another shrug.

“It’s... not like I haven’t been in danger before. And really, I didn’t do any of it. Not alone.” She smiles a little and turns her gaze back down to the people below. “They really have no idea how close they came to losing... _everything_.”

“No.” Thancred follows her gaze, “and its for the best it stays that way.”

“Mhm.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “You really _did_ do all those things, Phaedra.” He leans back on one hand. “You almost _died_. I was there. I saw.” He locks eyes with her and swallows on a lump that rises to the back of his throat. “I saw, and I was powerless to do anything.”

“But you weren’t powerless.” Phaedra’s protestation comes in a gentle, firm tone and she shifts towards him. “You...” she tuts, lifts her eyes skywards as if searching for the right words. Thancred watches as she grazes her teeth over her bottom lip. “You broke through the darkness.”

“Oh?” Thancred lifts a brow. “Is that right?”

“Be skeptical if you wish, but it’s the truth. That fight with Hades... It took _everything_ I had. I’ve never felt anything like it. His anger, his hatred, his... sorrow was so strong. My everything was barely enough to subdue him, and yet he was still there.... And then you...” She leans against him again, and Thancred can feel her whole body is trembling. He wishes he still had his coat to drape over her. “You were the light in the darkness.”

He swallows hard. “I didn’t do anything...” he says. He feels... uneasy. Praise is welcome, but he feels undeserving of it. He also knows that without Phaedra, the First would be nothing now. Emet-Selch would have succeeded. He and the other Scions only assisted. Phaedra is the real reason the First still exists at all. 

“You did.” Phaedra retorts, her voice still gentle, but firm. She tilts her head enough that Thancred can see her face. “I’m so proud of you, you know that?” He has to hold his breath a moment to keep from gulping again. “Not just because of how you helped me against Hades, but with how far you’ve come with Ryne. How much good you’ve done while being here... I can’t begin to imagine what those years were like.”

“Phaedra...”

The space behind Thancred’s nose itches and prickles. It feels as though his chest is swelling with words and emotions going unsaid. The sincerity in both her voice and expression is matched only by the furtive honesty in her gaze. She means every word she says, and each one comes from her heart. He’s overwhelmed, and is rather glad that he’s sitting down. 

When she looks at him more directly, he lifts a hand to cradle the back of her head and presses his lips to her forehead. He kisses her there, long and hard, squeezing his eyes closed and drawing in steadying breath after steadying breath. His heart his racing, and words he’s terrified of saying are there on the tip of his tongue. She does this so often to him; catches him unawares with her humility, sincerity, and belief in him that he feels he should be used to it by now... 

But he’s not.

He will never be used to this. To her ability to speak from her heart, and to use her words to wrap around and warm him. Gods, he _loves her_ more than he can ever possibly articulate, and she deserves so much more than he can offer. 

“You think too much of me,” he says, kissing the bridge of her nose. Phaedra tilts her head back enough that Thancred’s next kiss is on her mouth. He holds her there, his eyes squeezed closed and his fingers tangled within her hair, relishing the feel of her lips against his, and how she slides her hands around his neck and weaves the hair at his nape within her fingers. 

He pulls away, breathing as though he’s just fought a battle for his life. Phaedra looks at him with softness and adoration shining in her eyes, and inclines her head until her forehead presses to his. Her eyes close, and Thancred tries to calm his heartbeat and the flood of emotion that rages inside him. Her thumbs stroke along his jawline, and Thancred does all he can to nestle closer to her. 

“I’m proud of you, too.” He tells her finally, his voice breaking just above the sound of mixed conversation below them. “So proud.”


	2. Nose Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the kiss prompt: "Kiss on the nose", prompted by Eremiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ll have to endure some fighting first… >.> Please be kind.
> 
> Writing fights is not my forte; but I tried!

Thancred goes in for another strike, swinging his gunblade in a downward arc. Phaedra is ready. She blocks the attack with her right forearm; spins and jabs her fist into his abdomen. He coughs, but covers the pain with a grunt as he readies another attack.

They’re sparring.

At least, they’re _meant_ to be sparring. Thancred certainly is; with his dulled practice weapon and blank ammunition. Phaedra… He’s not sure. If the strength behind her attacks is her sparring strength, he almost feels sorry for anything she attacks without holding back. 

Phaedra spins. Her heel smacks him in the back sending him stumbling forward. he feels two quick jabs in the shoulder blades. She’s looking for weak points. He feints left, then turns right, brings the gunblade down over his head and catches her across the back as she’s moving away. She stumbles, but composes herself and faces him. She’s grinning and has an almost feral look in her eye. 

Thancred’s whole body is burning, and not entirely from his exertions.

They weigh each other up from across the sparring ring. Phaedra bounces from foot-to-foot. Always moving. She never stops. Her stance is tight, but fluid. She looks him over. Thancred holds himself close. Gunblade over his back, his limbs close to him to not allow attacks to penetrate. He brushes his tongue over one of his canine teeth and pushes his feet into the dirt. 

It’s a heartbeat, maybe less. Phaedra dashes forward. She’s fast. He can be faster, and in this instance he is. He slips to one side, avoiding her shoulder tackle and brings the blade down in a smooth arc. He releases one of the cartridges. There’s a loud _bang_ and Phaedra’s legs tumble from beneath her. She hits the ground in a cloud of dirt and sand.

“Do you yield?” Thancred asks, pointing the blade down at her back. 

She rolls forward onto her hands and uses the momentum to flip onto her feet. She turns to face him, taking up her stance once more. “You know me better than that.” Her face, clothes and body are smeared with dirt and sweat. It’s matted into her hair. Heat curls in Thancred’s belly. She shouldn’t look so appealing, yet she does.

She charges again before he has a chance to take up a defensive position. He fends off her blows as best he can, darting one way, then the other, and catching her fists and feet with the flat of the blade. Each time she impacts, there’s a clang of the metal and the vibration goes straight up his arm. She’s getting faster. Every hit she lands comes quicker after the one before it, until she’s almost a blur. 

Phaedra dances around him. Her fist to the back of his neck makes him stumble, and it’s all she needs. Another punch into his lower back from behind. A third into his kidney. The hits pulse through him and he feels winded. Thancred spins and is able to deflect her roundhouse with his blade. He snatches her right ankle before it finds the floor and unceremoniously _throws_ her back. Phaedra yelps, but is able to find her feet before hitting the ground for a second time. 

This time, Thancred takes the offensive. He pushes through the pain, and how winded he is and fires off the gunblade. Phaedra is not quite ready for him and she fumbles her defense. She deflects the first two blows, but the third Thancred feints once more. Left, then right, then left leaving her open. He lands a series of quick, brutal blows that ground her. 

Once more, he directs the point of the blade down at her. “Do you yield?” asks Thancred, breathing hard and pausing to mop blood from the corner of his mouth. 

She stares up at him, aqua eyes defiant. She intends to go on. Thancred begins to ready himself for her counterattack. It comes from below. Phaedra kicks her legs out from beneath her and crosses them around his own. She pulls, Thancred looses his balance and hits the floor with a hard _thud_. Before he realises what has happened; Phaedra is on him. She straddles his hips and her hands pin his to the ground. 

“Do _you_ yield?” Phaedra is panting and grinning and utterly vibrant, leaning over him and relishing in her perceived victory.

“That’s cheating.” Thancred narrows his eyes at her. He breathes hard, and can taste the dirt of the sparring ring in his mouth. 

Phaedra leans in and kisses the end of his nose. “Do you yield?” Thancred wrinkles his nose in response, then rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

She beams, and hops up off of him and to the side. She offers him her hand which he takes, and he pushes himself to his feet. 

“This was fun!” Laughs Phaedra, gathering up Thancred’s gunblade from where it fell.

“You only say that because you won.” He takes the blunted weapon from her and sheathes it. Before she is out of his reach, he grabs her wrist and pulls her towards him. He leans down and speaks low enough that only she can hear. “Now, get yourself to my room in the Pendants. I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to rip all your clothes off.” He kisses the end of her nose, and saunters away, leaving her quite speechless in his wake.

She might have won the battle, but he’s about to win the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck knows what that last line is, but it seemed appropriate?
> 
> Anyway, yay! Sparring couples and sexual tension… Whee!


	3. Teary Hand Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asked by anomaliewrites on tumblr from a kiss prompt list.  
> Her RNG gave her 6. tear kiss and 23. on the hand/wrist kiss. Which honestly. might be the hardest friggin' pairing of kisses ever.
> 
> Disclaimer: I tried.

Thancred doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps from where he is lying beneath the skyskipper and tending to the under carriage. In fact, he only notes that he is no longer alone with the machine when he glances down to find a wrench that is _just_ out of reach and can see a shadow near to where his feet are sticking out. He smiles, and slides out from the shade into the heat and bright sunlight of Mord Souq. 

It takes a good thirty seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light. He blinks hard, winding his oil stained hands on a rag and peering up at the bleary figure before him who is silhouetted by the sun. Even with his vision blurred and slowly coming into focus, he knows who stands before him. He knew she had arrived in Amh Araeng some time ago. Some deep seated link between them told him with a ripple up his spine. 

He may not be able to manipulate aether any longer; but something binds him to Phaedra. Something more than aether.

“Hello,” he smiles up at her, shielding his eyes with one hand while grasping the rag in the other. Sweat trickles down his back from his neck. The hair at the nape of his neck is plastered to his skin. He’s been working on the skyskipper for bells… He should wait until the heat of the day has passed before he continues. 

“Do you have a minute?” Phaedra asks, glancing around at the denizens of Mord Souq.

“You? You get two.” He gets to his feet with a groan of effort; his back aches from where he has been lying on the hard ground, and his shoulders aren’t much happier either. Thancred, however, is. Very happy, in fact, to see Phaedra, and have her in front of him. He steps into her space and leans in to greet her with a quick kiss. She diverts her head enough that his lips meet her forehead, rather than her mouth.

It’s a strange action. She has never rejected his kisses before… But then, for all he knows, there may be oil on his mouth. He does not let it bother him as he follows her away from the skyskipper and further into the settlement. They wander passed some of the Mord as they arrange and rearrange their wares to barter and sell. The Mord have been generous enough to offer a building for Thancred, Ryne, Urianger and other members of the Eden expedition team to stay in. The buildings are simple, the rooms are small but adequate, and there are guards always watching over the still comatose woman who attacked them. 

Phaedra has been silent the whole time they walked. By the time they reach his room, Thancred’s mind has conjured up a thousand and one things that are causing her to be so distant. And she is distant. She has hardly looked at him, let alone spoken. When he chanced to reach for her hand, she reacted as though he was on fire and snatched her hand out of his reach. He wonders if something has happened on the Source. Has his body been damaged in some way. Have the Rising Stones been attacked. Have the Garleans made a move into Eorzean territory and made good on their threat of Black Rose…

He stands by the door after closing in and tries to control his breathing. Phaedra turns to face him and gestures to a simple chair that is in the corner of the room. His coat is draped over the back of it. 

“Please sit down.”

“You’re not about to tell me you’re pregnant, are you?” The question falls from his mouth in an uncouth, almost accusatory tone. The shock and confusion that filters through Phaedra expression is enough to quell _that_ particular fear.

“No.” Despite her answer, Phaedra’s hands go and lay over her abdomen. “I don’t think it’s possible for hyur and au ra to– why, do I look pregnant?”

“No, no.” Thancred sits in the seat she gestured to, feeling foolish and unnerved. “It’s just normally, when someone asks another person to sit down and is as serious as you have been since arriving, they are about to deliver some news.”

“Well… I’m not.” To his surprise, Phaedra kneels before him and bows her head. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap. It’s a very formal position. Thancred isn’t sure where to look, or what to think. “I owe you an apology.”

He lifts a brow, “an apology?” All of this for an apology? He doesn’t want to admit to the relief he feels flood his body, but he does. The heaviness he experienced walking with her to the room dissipates, as do all the worst case scenarios his mind was cooking up. “An apology for what?” 

“I spent some time with Granson,” Phaedra begins to explain, her head remains bowed and Thancred notes how her fingers tighten in the fabric of her trousers. “A young man who frequented the Wandering Stairs. He was hunting down one of the Cardinal Virtue sin eaters called Dikaiosyne.”

“Right…”

“Dikaiosyne turned Granson’s love into a sin eater… Before the mindless nature over took her completely, she begged Granson to end it for her. To…”

“To kill her.” Thancred leans back in the chair and it creaks. He understands, suddenly. what all the formality is about and the apology. He wants to stop Phaedra; tell her there is nothing to apologize for, but she begins talking again before he can say so.

“Granson did as she requested, and there began his quest for revenge against Dikaiosyne. It consumed him, until he didn’t really know who he was without that anger and that thirst for vengeance in his heart. It was only through learning more about who Dikaiosyne was… _before_ and one of a Nu Mou that Granson learned to let go. And instead of vengeance, he wanted to give the person Dikaiosyne was before - Branson - peace.”

“Phaedra…”

“It… hit close to home.” Phaedra continues. Her shoulders are shaking and her voice grows more strained the longer she speaks. “I asked you something very similar when the light began to consume me. I never should have. It was wrong and unfair of me to put that kind of pressure and wish on you. You don’t _do that_ to people you love. You don’t ask them to kill you because you’re afraid… I should never have made that request and it’s been eating me up inside that I did.”

Thancred slips off the chair and onto the ground. He kneels in front of Phaedra and grasps her hands with one of his. As he does, tears drip off the end of her nose onto his hand. He cradles her cheek with his other hand, and coaxes her to lift her head so he can look her in the eyes. She bites her bottom lip to keep her sniffles at bay.

“Oh, Phaedra…” he leans in and kisses her forehead. He exhales against her skin and strokes her cheek with his thumb. As he shifts to lean his forehead to hers, he watches her turn her head slightly and kiss the palm of his hand. 

“I’m so sorry…” Phaedra sobs, squeezing her eyes closed and clinging to the hand that cradles her cheek with both of hers. “I’m so sorry. I never should have… I put you in an impossible position and…”

“You were afraid.” Thancred says, his voice soft. He soothes as best he can, retracing the pattern of her scales and her cheekbone with his thumb. “You were scared and the future was uncertain. You did not wish to become a mindless beast, and I understand your reasons for asking. I would have done the same in your position.”

She shakes her head, “no, you wouldn’t have.” She hiccups a little and rubs her right eye with the heel of her hand. Her eyes are bloodshot and her breath is short. She has been carrying around this guilt for who knows how long, letting it eat away at her until it’s unbearable. Thancred wishes she had said something sooner, rather than letting it fester, but at least she’s talking about it _now._ “You’re stronger than me. You would have been able to contain the light. Turning would never have been an issue–”

“That’s a lie and you know it.” Thancred’s voice is sharp and he meets Phaedra shocked face with a steely gaze of his own. “There’s a _reason_ the Exarch needed you; and that’s because you were the only one able to do what you did. Had any of us tried, me, Y’shtola, Alphinaud, we would have been consumed and become eaters ourselves. Fear gripped your heart when the possibility of losing control loomed its head. There’s no shame in that.”

Phaedra lowers her eyes and drops her head to lean on Thancred’s shoulder. “I won’t ever ask you something like that again.” She tells him in a rather feeble voice. “I promise.”

Thancred sighs. He shifts to sit on the floor instead of kneel, and pulls Phaedra into his arms. She does not resist and her body lies limp against his chest. “Hopefully, there will never be another reason for you to consider asking.” He strokes her hair, and they sit wound up together in silence. 


	4. Prompt: “It’s three in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Anon on tumblr: “It’s three in the morning.”
> 
> I had a thought. That thought did not really make sense. So. 
> 
> SOrry?
> 
> I have no idea what this is... >___< Wish things I wrote made sense...
> 
> Or like, fit into canon. Or were like, more in depth. Or interesting. Or. ... y’know,fuckin’ readable. 
> 
> sorry. i need sleep

There is something that comes with sharing a bed with the same person over and over. A familiarity. A rhythm. You learn their habits. The sound of their breathing. The positions they like to sleep in. You discover how the mattress changes with their movements, and what it feels like when they aren’t there. You learn how much _bigger_ a bed feels when it’s occupied by only one person. 

Thancred falls into that familiarity and rhythm without thinking about it, or pausing to consider the implications. He doesn’t want to. He allows himself to have _this_. To be selfish and embroil himself completely and utterly in how simple and yet intimate it is. 

He learns Phaedra’s patterns. When she sleeps. How she sleeps. That she prefers the left side of the bed, nearest the wall to the right. He learns that she starts on her side and almost always winds up on her front. He learns she often wakes with a dead arm or a dead hand from where her weight is on it. He learns small noises and nuances; little idiosyncrasies that give away when she’s waking, or if she’s dreaming. 

It’s how he knows she’s not in bed with him when he wakes. Her apartment is dimly lit from two lamps that stay illuminated on the lower floor. He peers blearily over at the chromometer above the door to see the time; and notes that Phaedra is sitting on one of the plush sofas. Silent and staring at nothing. 

He yawns and pulls his tired limbs out of bed. It’s cold outside of the covers. He shivers and rubs his arms to quell the goosebumps. His feet make no sound on the stairs, nor on the tiled floor as he crosses towards her. Only when he places his hands on her shoulders does she react to his presence, jumping with surprise. 

“Sorry,” he kisses the top of her head. “Darling, it’s three in the morning.”

“Is it?” Phaedra turns her head to the chronometer. “I didn’t realise... I’m sorry. Go back to bed.” She pats one of his hands as if that is the end of it. 

Her voice is alert; which means she’s been awake for some time. Thancred circles around the couch to sit beside her. She has a blanket draped over her legs. He takes it, ruffles it and lays it over the two of them before he slides an arm around her shoulders and draws her closer. 

At first they sit with their upper arms touching. Within minutes, Phaedra is settled with her head in his lap. Thancred slowly and gently runs the tip of his index finger up and down the bridge of her nose. He watches her fight to keep her eyelids from closing. 

“Bad dream?” he asks, tilting his head back and letting his own eyes close. Phaedra’s body is enough to warm him. If they fall asleep on the couch, then they fall asleep on the couch. It won’t be the worst place he’s ever slept. 

“... I think I was remembering.” Phaedra tells him, her voice drowsy and quiet. 

“Remembering what?”

“A storm.” She takes a breath. When Thancred peers down at her, her eyes are closed and her brows are drawn together. “I can taste sea water. It’s as though I am choking.” She rubs her throat. “I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. I can’t swim. It’s like I’m being pulled down...”

Thancred brushes her hair away from her face. Her expression is etched with concentration as she tries to recall her dream... Her memory. He knows little of her life before they met; it’s a subject Phaedra avoids discussing even with him. All he knows is that she lived in Lower La Noscea before she lived in Ul’dah. 

“Were you remembering a shipwreck?” he asks as carefully as he is able. “Is that how you wound up in Lower La Noscea?”

Phaedra’s eyes snap open and she jerks upright. The blanket covering her pools in her lap and she sits. Perfectly still. Rigid. Stealing quick, shallow breaths. Her pupils are pinpricks and her jaw is clenched shut. She stares dead ahead at nothing. Her nostrils flare each time she breathes. 

He’s touched too close to something that she either doesn’t want to remember, or something that does not want to be remembered. When he places he hands on her upper arms he can feel how cold her skin has become. He rubs to generate warmth.

“Phaedra.” He speaks her name rather than calls or shouts. He keeps his voice steady and calm, and ensures that his heartbeat stays level and slow. “Darling,” He winds his fingers through her hair, strokes her neck, her shoulders and her back. He repeats the same pattern over and over until her body begins to relax and her breathing starts to even out. “Lie down, Phaedra.” 

She does. He covers her with the blanket and resumes stroking the bridge of her nose. 

“M’sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” Her eyes close and her breath shudders when she exhales. After a few moments, Thancred tentatively asks, “have you... _remembered_ things before?”

“Not as vividly.” She answers after about thirty seconds. “I don’t want to remember... whatever it is.”

Thancred sighs as he considers what to say. It takes him a few minutes to realise he doesn’t _know_ what to say, and that maybe there isn’t anything that he can say in this instance that will be helpful, or supportive, or even comforting. Maybe, in this, silence is the best option. Not empty words or platitudes. So he says nothing. He offers comfort through gesture and silence. He waits until Phaedra’s breathing has deepened and she is asleep in his lap before he too succumbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's that. 
> 
> Whatever it is.


	5. Prompt: Blowing a raspberry against someone's skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a list of kiss prompts. This was submitted by Eremiss on tumblr (also on ao3!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I tried.  
> Mindless, pointless fluff. Also, yes, Phaedra does not know what a “blowing a raspberry” is. It’s probably been done to her in the past, but she’s never known it has a technical name. 
> 
> Either way, she doesn’t like it. 
> 
> This would probably take place towards the beginning of Stormblood. So, established relationshippy... stuff.

Thancred is in the middle of transferring notes from one aged tome into his own short hand when when he hears the first sound of Phaedra’s confusion and disapproval. Brow arched, he glances across to where she’s sitting on his bed. Her back is to the wall, legs tucked up with a book propped open against them. She looks… unimpressed and perturbed. Clearly the subject matter is annoying her, but he leaves her with her discontentment. He knows full well that if something really bothers her, she’ll say so.

The second sound is more of a _“what?”_ whispered harshly beneath her breath. This time when he looks, her head is tilted and she holds the book in both hands and at arms length. She is squinting at the page. 

“Something wrong?” he asks, turning his attention back to the parchment in front of him and the scribbled notes only he understands. 

“Don’t like it.” Phaedra closes the book with a snap. “Makes no sense. What’s ‘blowing a raspberry’?

Thancred cannot help but laugh. Not only at the question she asks, but also at her indignation. “It’s an act of affection.” He explains, smiling. “Has no one ever…?”

She lifts a brow at him. “I know what a _rolanberry_ is. What even _is_ a raspberry? Are they related?”

“Maybe.” He shrugs, rises from his chair and stretches his arms above his head. His muscles tense and quiver as he relaxes and paces a little, relieved to have the momentary distraction. The whole underside of his right hand is black with ink. “Stand up, I’ll demonstrate.”

Phaedra hums, eyeing him with suspicion. He sits on the edge of his bed, and she shuffles off the covers to stand. Thancred turns her to face him, large hands lazily resting on her hips. He leans forward enough that the end if his nose and his lips brush her bare stomach. Phaedra’s reaction is instant as she shivers a little and winds her fingers back through the length of his hair. He kisses a few more times; each one is soft and his lips ghost over her flesh while he rubs his thumbs in circles at her hips. She relaxes under the caress of his mouth and its when Thancred’s kisses reach her navel that he decides to educate her. 

“So, a raspberry,” he says, glancing up with his uncovered eye. Phaedra peers down at him, pupils blown wide and a flush winding up her neck and chest like ivy against a wall, “is this.”

He takes a breath, presses his mouth harder to her stomach and blows. The noise that erupts from him is a loud trumpeting sound. Phaedra yelps and recoils so violently she almost trips over her feet. Thancred retains his hold on her, steadying her as she wobbles. 

When he looks at her again her nostrils are flared and she looks half disgusted and half horrified. Also confused, and a little speechless; if her mouth hanging open is anything to go by. 

“Alright?” Thancred strokes her thigh. He leans in again to kiss her belly. She finches from him. He lifts his gaze to hers. “I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t like it.” Phaedra states. “Is that meant to be romantic? Or… or something people enjoy being done to them?” The indignation has returned. “It’s horrid.”

He offers her a soft smile. “Some people enjoy it.” He leans his chin on her hip bone. “It’s a… something that there is really a time and place for.”

“Not here. Not now.”

Chuckling, he agrees. “Clearly not.” He sighs and wraps his arms around Phaedra middle, drawing her towards him to slot between his legs. He strokes her back and rests his head against her abdomen. She slides her fingers over his shoulders and pushes his hair back away from his face. 

“Do you like raspberries?” asks Phaedra after a minute or so of silence. 

Thancred gives a half-hearted shrug. “They’ve never been my _favorite_ gesture of affection to receive.” He feels drowsy. “The preamble is quite nice, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always; endings are stupid.


	6. Prompt: "" this is why we can't have nice things"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from AnomalieWrites on tumblr (also on AO3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally thought of an idea for this one. >__<
> 
> Had to change it to “this is why I can’t have nice things”. Sorry is not very good...
> 
> Established relationship. Timeline wise... prolly somewhere between Heavensward and Stormblood, but closer to Stormblood. Uh. Yup.

A sharp series of knocks on the door rouses Phaedra from her sleep. Before she’s even heaved her limbs from under the covers, or glanced at the chronometer on the wall, the door opens, closes and Thancred paces in and to her dresser.

Half-awake and rubbing sleep from her eyes, she notes first that Thancred is shirtless. Second, his hair is wet. And third, he has a face like thunder. 

“Uhm...” Phaedra stifles a yawn. She sits on the edge of her bed, shivering at against the chill of the Rising Stones and stretches her legs out in front of her. “Can I help you?” she asks him, quirking her head to one side as she watches him continue to dig through her bottom drawer.

“Shirt.” He answers sharply.

Phaedra blinks, confused. “Shirt?”

“Yes.” He rounds on her, “shirt! Like the one you’re wearing-- Twelve Phaedra, this is why I can’t have nice things! You always steal them.”

She peers down at what she’s wearing. A simple tunic that is too big for her and swamps her body in its size. It’s a man’s tunic. White, cotton, nicely made with a a simple fasten at the neck that she has left undone. It gapes open. Still confused, Phaedra lifts her head to meet Thancred’s gaze. 

“Huh?” She furrows her brows. “This is yours?”

“Unless you’re in the habit of stealing clothes belonging to _all_ the men you meet, then yes. I would think _that_ particular tunic is mine. As are,” he turns and snatches a small pile of garments from where he had them piled on top of her dresser, “these.”

Phaedra smiles through her sleepiness. “M’sorry.” She rises and crosses to him, the hem of the shirt she’s wearing brushes the tops of her thighs. “I like having something of yours when you’re away.” She places her hands on his crossed arms. “Clearly they get mixed in with my laundry and after they’ve been laundered or I’ve slept in them enough, they don’t smell like you any more. So...”

“The amount of requests for new shirts and tunics I’ve had to place with Tataru because they kept going missing...” scoffs Thancred. “I’m surprised she doesn’t have me weaving the material myself to save on cost.”

“Sorry,” she leans upon her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Will you now?” His stance relaxes and he leans on the dresser. His shoulders drop, though his arms still remain crossed and he lifts his chin, a small, smug smile tugging the corners of his lips. “And how do you intend to do that, hm?”

“Don’t get any funny ideas, Waters.” Phaedra turns away from him with a flick of her tail and saunters towards the window. Light streams in from outside when she opens the curtains and she turns back to face him. She can see her reflection in the vanity mirror on top of the dresser. The light pours in from behind her and the outline of her figure is visible through the thin material of her shirt. 

_His_ shirt. 

It leaves nothing to the imagination. Her position at the window, and the casual-but-controlled stance makes it obscenely obvious that she’s wearing the shirt, smalls, and nothing else. 

Thancred is a master at controlling his expression. To anyone else, there would be no apparent change. Phaedra knows his tells though, or at least some of them. She notes the slight vibration of his Adam’s apple, and the way his eyes widen a touch, before he averts his gaze to his fingernails. 

“No quip?” she teases, leaning forward and letting the open collar drape open. “No smart remark? Or rebuttal?” Phaedra winds her fingers through her loose hair and pulls it all over one shoulder where she continues to play with it, curling it and twisting the ends. “I’m disappointed. Perhaps you’re losing your wit.”

Turning back to face the window and peer outside at Mor Dhona waking up, Phaedra can only bite back the grin she feels when Thancred swiftly crosses her room. There’s a _flumph_ sound as he throws the shirts he collected to the ground. His arms encircle her waist, and next thing she feels is his lips on her neck. 

“This _isn’t_ what I had in mind when I can looking for my missing clothing.” He states, pulling the shirt up above her hips and squeezing one hand into her backside. “What am I going to do with you?” He breathes hotly against her cheek before Phaedra turns her head enough to greet his mouth. She giggles, and his own laughter swallows the sound. He threads his fingers through her hair and inhales a long breath. 

“If you insist in coming into my room half naked...” teases Phaedra. “Mayhap the better question is what am _I_ to do with _you_?” 

Without warning, he hoists her up into his arms. She crosses her legs around his waist on instinct, gripping to his shoulder while Thancred’s hands press into the backs of her thighs. 

“I think, to prevent further thievery--” he drops her rather unceremoniously onto her bed and pins her to the mattress with one leg between her own, and his weight positioned above her, “you keep the shirt _on_ and we work on it smelling more like me.” He brushes the end of his nose along Phaedra’s and laughs. “How does that sound?”

She hums thoughtfully. Her tail swishes back and forth with both impatience and anticipation. All thought of sleep is gone from her mind. “How long do you think that will take?”

“Well, as it happens darling,” Thancred leans in and kisses her soundly, one hand cradling her cheek, while the other delves beneath her shirt and strokes her hip, “I have a day utterly devoid of appointments or engagements... So, as long as we like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very silly. It doesn’t feel very.... Thancred-y to me? Like its too playful? Too... idek, relaxed? Maybe? Anyway. Is an idea. So. There’s that. I finished another prompt~


	7. "Hey, don’t touch me there. It hurts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a list of prompts dubbed: "Physical Contact Prompts"   
> Prompted by Eremiss on tumblr (and on AO3)
> 
> Prompt was: "Hey, don’t touch me there. It hurts."

Phaedra slides herself out of bed with as much silence and stillness as is possible. Its dark outside the windows, and Thancred deserves to sleep as long as he needs to given his recent return from Garlemald. She shivers against the cold and tiptoes down the steps. 

Warmth calls to her in the form of a hot shower. She runs the water and strips off her bedclothes while waiting for it to heat up. In a full length mirror she catches a glimpse of her body and the pattern of mottled bruises that currently litter her skin. She should be used to it by now; cuts and bruises are a daily occurrence and as soon as they have faded or healed, more replace them.

The mirror begins to steam in the heat and Phaedra turns from her reflection to step under spray of water. She drenches her hair, rubs her hands over face and stands. Stands, and lets the water rinse away the pain and the aches in her bones and muscles. She needs to wash. She knows she should wash and begin her day... but that means there will be more for her to do. More battles to fight. More tasks. More. More. More...

Always more. 

Her mind is empty and she starts when two arms wrap firmly around her waist. Thancred holds her steady to prevent her from reacting violent - a lesson he learned the hard way. His broad chest presses to her back and he nuzzles the space behind her horn with his nose. 

“Been half a bell...” The words are more a rumble, than actually spoken and the timbre of his voice sends shivers curling around Phaedra’s stomach. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you.” Phaedra leans against him. Her body is tired and she feels like she could lose her footing without Thancred holding her up. “You need the rest.”

“M’fine.” His words slur together a little. He nuzzles her horn. His gestures are gentle and affectionate; there’s no desire behind them beyond that of wanting to be close. Phaedra appreciates the attention and adoration so much that it makes her chest ache. 

The water from the shower has soaked Thancred’s hair enough that he has to push it back off his face. His gestures sends a spray of water back towards the wall and he looks dashingly roguish with it pushed back. He re-positions his hands on her. One remains across her belly, the other descends lower and he squeezes her hip. 

Phaedra flinches, “hey, don’t touch me there.” She bats his hand away from where there is an impressive bruise about the size of a desert bowl that is black and purple. “It hurts.”

Thancred’s hand hovers in the air. Phaedra shifts, trying to turn and hide the worst of her injuries from him. She hears him sigh behind her and can picture the sympathy in his expression without seeing it. 

“I apologize.” He gently lays his palm on the bruise and strokes. There’s no pressure in his touch or the rhythm he sets. He simply lays his hand and repeats the motion as though doing so with soothe the ache and cause the discoloration to disappear. “Can the healers not help?”

“Hardly worth their time.” Phaedra lifts and drops her shoulders on a sharp sigh. “They’ll fade.”

“Can’t heal yourself?”

She quirks her mouth to one side. “No.” 

“Poor darling,” He moves behind her and sits on the edge of the tub. Phaedra steps towards him on instinct, wanting his closeness and the security his presence offers. Thancred kisses the bruise on her hip, his lips barely brushing her flesh. “It’s not much...” he remarks ruefully as he strokes the curve of her thigh. 

Phaedra strokes his hair and her heart swells a little, “it’s everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t… really… know what the ending is… But like… I feel like I like it?


	8. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a random idea i had and it would take place during Heavensward; just after the quest “Consequences”.

Phaedra leaves Emmanellain in the care of the Chirurgeons where he nurses his rapidly swelling jaw and his dented pride while sitting at Honoroit’s bedside. She knows they will be fine and well cared for, and given a chance to reflect, Emmanellain may even come to thank Thancred for his harsh lesson.

That lesson though is what worries Phaedra and has her searching for him throughout Ishgard. His words, spoken to Emmanellain with such bitterness and venom weave like a toxin through her veins and around her mind. Grief is a disturbing and vicious creature, a fact she knows well, it makes people act differently and say things they don’t mean to. It also, sometimes, causes them to speak the truth but in a more convoluted fashion. 

He has changed so much from the man she first met in Ul’dah. His time in the Lifestream and his isolation in the Dravanian Forelands, without magic and fending for himself; those experiences hardened him. Turned him from someone content with existing to someone determined to survive. But the loss of Minfilia broke his heart, and Phaedra doubts it has started to repair... or ever will, for that matter. 

Steeling herself, she searches various haunts and allies throughout Ishgard starting the The Brume. She doesn’t find him in the manor, or wandering the Jeweled Crozier. It takes time, but after asking a few of the citizens she tracks him to The Forgotten Knight and a room he has rented of his own volition - not a good sign. 

Phaedra slides the barkeep a handful of gil when he is reluctant to point out the room. When that does not sway his tongue, his wife steps in and points it out. As Phaedra makes her way down the hall, she can hear the wife hiss to her husband: _“don’t you know who that is?!”_

Orange light spills out from underneath the door and Phaedra debates knocking or not. She stands a good few seconds, her heartbeat vibrating around her skull before she decides surprise might be a better option in this case and turns the handle. The room is small and sparsely decorated. It hardly keeps the cold out, but most of Thancred’s meager possessions are here. The man himself sits on the edge of a small, threadbare bed, sharpening and tending to the larger of his daggers with a whetstone. 

He glances at her with his uncovered eye as she stands in the threshold. He knew she was outside the door. Of course he did. She did nothing to disguise her footfalls or even quiet her voice. He probably knew she was in The Forgotten Knight the moment she stepped inside. 

“How fairs the boy?”

“Which one?” Phaedra closes the door. “Emmanellain is licking his wounds and his face is swelling nicely - he won’t let the healers touch it. Honoroit is being tended. He will recover in a few days from his injuries.”

“Good.” Thancred moves the stone over the keen edge of his blade, each stroke is steady and rhythmic. Phaedra can’t help but watch the muscles in his upper arms flex with each gesture. Had he _always_ been so well built? Or was it hidden beneath his tunic all this time... Looking at him, with his darker skin and his shaggy hair and the dour expression on his face, it’s as though he and the Thancred she first met are two different people. 

“Minfilia.” Phaedra says without thought or consideration. Thancred freezes, whetstone mid-stroke. A muscle in his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare and she watches him close his eye when the shock of her name has worn off. Phaedra crosses her arms. 

“What about her?” he asks, his voice icy. 

“What to said to Emmanellain about fighting tooth and nail to protect those you love, and failing... You know it’s not true, don’t you?”

There’s a pregnant pause where the air grows stagnant between them and it feels as though they are each waiting for the other to speak or act. Phaedra refuses to budge, waiting for an answer trying to hide the quake in her breathing. After a minute, maybe more, Thancred turns his attention back to his blade and begins to sharpen it again. 

Phaedra bristles, “don’t ignore me, Thancred.” She moves further into the room until she stands in front of him. “Talk to me; for Twelves’s sake, you have barely spoken about her since we learned she became the Word of the Mother. You _cannot_ shoulder this grief alone.”

“I have no desire to talk of this.” Thancred rises from his bed, putting the blade and stone to one side. Phaedra stumbles back a little when he rises. He towers over her and the look in his uncovered eye is like a hurricane brewing on the horizon. “You have no right to--”

“No right?!” Phaedra lifts her voice and squeezes her hands into fists at her side. “Thancred, I was _there_ when she _chose_ to follow Hyadaelyn’s call. I was the one who had to deliver the facts to you and Y’shtola and Alphinaud because she cannot come and explain herself to you all. To say I have no right is... Is unfair! We’re all grieving her. We all loved her.”

“You didn’t fight for her survival.” Thancred replies, a savage bite to his words and his lips curling back into a snarl. “You didn’t willingly stay behind to be certain of her escape, only for your attempt to fail. You didn’t protect her the way you should have!”

The words hit and land square in her chest as though she’s been struck there with one of her own punches. There’s pain. Pain, and sorrow, and anger... So much anger in his words and his thoughts. But it’s not just with himself. He doesn’t just blame himself for the outcome of these events...

“You blame me.” Phaedra realises, back-stepping as though she’s been shoved. “You blame me for not protecting her. Not stopping her.”

Thancred’s eye is narrowed, but he looks away from her. It’s more than enough confirmation that she is correct. He doesn’t need to say anything else, so he does not. Instead he turns away from her, gathers up his blade and sheathes it. 

Phaedra is shocked. Shocked and... _angry_. So angry, that it bubbles up and overwhelms her shock, overwhelms her grief, and overwhelms the hurt. It bubbles up and bubbles up and bubbles _out_.

“I never _asked_ to be the Warrior of Light. I never wanted to be special or fight for a God. I never wanted to be forced to run into fights with Primal after Primal, scraping through with my life each time.” Her voice is level and hard, despite the rage in each syllable. Still, she keeps her arms fixed at her sides and her hands tightly clenched until her nails bite into her skin. “I never asked to be forced to watch my friends, one-by-one sacrifice themselves as they bid me escape.”

“You don’t _have_ to blame me for Minfilia’s end, because I already blame myself. I blame myself for Estinien, for Hauchefaunt, for Ysayle. For every end to a tempered person. For every fatality caused because I wasn’t there or strong enough or clever enough. I blame and hate myself enough already; far more than you could possibly hate and blame me.”

She is talking to his back, but he hasn’t moved an ilm since she started speaking. His body is stiff, his shoulders square, but his head is bowed. Phaedra voice chokes a little; her breath is growing shorter as the anger fueled rant turns into pain she has fought to conceal. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Phaedra bites back a sniffle and her voice quavers. “I don’t know what you want me to do or what I _can_ do to make this right. I’m sorry I failed to save her. To stop her. I’m sorry you’re angry. I’m sorry you feel like you failed, too. I--”

Her words come to an abrupt halt as Thancred turns and pulls her into his embrace. His arms are tight, his chest is warm and he smothers her against him. Phaedra can hear his heart racing. His breathing is uneven and hitches when it catches on what might be a sob; though she isn’t sure because his embrace prevents her from looking. She doesn’t care. Even as her anger and pain remain, the balm of comfort soothes them a little. 

“I know it wasn’t your fault.” Thancred whispers harshly, his voice low and choked with emotion. “I know she followed Hydaelyn’s call the way I know she would. She had a purpose, far greater than she or I ever expected... But it _hurts_. I failed her so many times. This feels like just another failure on my part.”

“I keep thinking back... If only I had been more aware. If only I had stayed with you. If only the waterways were more secret. If only...” he sighs into her hair, “so many things.”

Slowly, Phaedra unfurls her fists and encircles his waist with her arms. She wants to say something. Wants to comfort him, but also wants to be angry with him for bottling everything up. She wants to be able to solve all his pain and hurt with words... But that isn’t how it works. 

Grief is a monster that cannot be so easily bested. It takes time, and energy, and communication. And while this conversation is not much; it is, at the very least, a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started losing steam half way though. Can you tell? *sighs*   
> Anyway… its an idea. Misplaced blame and or maybe not misplaced. idk. i swear I had a point.


	9. Nonchalant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a 2019 February Prompts list
> 
> nonchalant  
> adjective:  
> (of a person or manner) feeling or appearing casually calm and relaxed
> 
> i tried?

Thancred lingers in the space between asleep and awake; pulled neither way and content to remain in that happy middle ground while waiting for Phaedra to join him in the land of consciousness. He brushes a lazy thumb over the pattern of scales at the base of her back. Her weight rests partly on his chest and partly beside him; one of her arms is tucked and folded between them, the other remains stretched out over his collarbone. 

He can hear noise outside. The chatter of people setting up for the day in Mor Dhona and fellow Scions greeting each other in the halls. Sunlight streams in from the window creating a cold beam at the foot of the bed. He forgot to pull the curtains again. Not that it matters; by the time the sun has moved to where it would be an issue, he and Phaedra will be up and moving.

At least they should be. 

Drumming the fingers of his hand on her lower back, Thancred uses his free hand to push Phaedra’s hair back from her face. She looks peaceful. It breaks his heart to wake her, but they cannot remain in bed all day. Much as they both might want to. 

“Phaedra,” he more hums her name than says it and his voice is hoarse from not being used all night. He curls her hair behind her horn. In doing so, he runs his finger along the top ridge of it. “’Tis morning. Time to get up.”

The only sign he receives that she heard him is her moaning and squishing in closer to his side. Her bare legs brush his as she curls them up and the arm across his collar stretches further until he can feel her fingers tucking behind his neck. 

In truth, Phaedra is more a morning person than her actions would have anyone believe. She usually rises without complaint, and has never needed a morning boost to get going; a testament to her discipline as a monk, Thancred is sure. This morning, and other mornings like it, however, are rare. It’s not often they get to spend the night together. Not often they get to enjoy each other’s company in such a relaxed and intimate setting without one having to rush off on a mission or to fulfill other duties.

He is reluctant to push the matter of getting up; but he knows Phaedra will only be annoyed with herself if they linger much longer. Also, the sooner they get up, the less others will gossip. 

“Phaedra,” Thancred tries again. He noses her brow and weaves her hair around his fingers. 

“I like your hair this length…” Phaedra’s voice vibrates through him. It’s slurred and soft, but she’s speaking so it’s a step in the right direction. Her fingers weave through where his hair is loose from its usual braid. “S’so silky.”

Thancred chuckles. He squeezes her tighter to his side until she is forced to move and lie on him so they’re chest-to-chest. He pulls the blankets up enough to cover them up to her tail so that should anyone enter without knocking, they will not be treated to an eyeful of the Warrior of Light naked with her paramour. 

The change in position wakes her further. She blinks once. Twice. A third time, her aqua eyes focusing in on him. She smiles; blithe and sleepy before she folds her arm over his chest and rests her cheek on it. She continues to curl and stroke his hair around her fingers. The gesture sends tingles shooting over Thancred’s head and down his spine; she certainly isn’t making this easy. 

“Time to get up,” he tells her, though his deep sigh is a rather incriminating sound that betrays his own desire to stay in bed. He strokes a hand up and down her back. He can feel the changes in the texture of her skin when he brushes over scars. Some are small, barely noticeable. Others are more defined. Memories of Primals. Memories of Baelsar. Memories of Nidhogg. Memories of Beastmen. There’s one in particular that sits just beneath her rib cage; a mark from Lahabrea.

Absently, Thancred runs his thumb over that scar trying to ignore how his stomach sinks. Each scar is a reminder of how he isn’t there - _wasn’t_ there - to even help, let alone protect her. She runs into danger every day and while she may come out of it, she never comes out unscathed. Even if her body bears no marks, her mind does. 

“You’re brooding.” Phaedra’s voice is a teasing lilt and it pulls him from his reverie. She rests her chin on her arm, brows slightly furrowed as she peers down at him. 

“Not brooding, thinking.”

A simple head tilt and her expression softening slightly is all she needs to do to tell him she does not believe him. She does not push it, however. Instead she untangles her fingers from his hair as she leans towards him and pecks the end of his nose with her lips. “Time to get up you said.”

“I did.” Thancred manages to smile, glad that she has chosen not to pursue his thoughts. It’s too early for him to weigh her down with his guilt… It will always be too early. 

Phaedra grunts a little as she moves, and Thancred misses her weight and warmth as she slides off him and off the single bed. She wraps the sheet around her shuffles around his room gathering up her clothes. He rolls onto his side propping his head up on a fist and watches her, utterly aware of and unapologetic about his own nakedness. He only smiles when Phaedra glances over at him while she pushes her hair back. 

“I do wish you would wear your hair down more.” When it’s loose it almost reaches the base of her tail. 

“Not the most practical for battle.” Phaedra says with a coy smile. She abandons her search for clothes and comes to sit on the bed with him. She cradles his face in one hand, brushing her thumb over his eyebrow and down to his beard. “But, maybe when we’re alone I’ll leave it down.”

“I would like that.” Is all Thancred can say before her mouth claims his. It’s a brief kiss, one that is a greeting that will linger throughout the day until they reunite later. They exhale in unison and press their foreheads together. Thancred relishes the last few moments of this, their privacy and sanctuary, before the day begins. “Good morning, my Warrior of Light.” He laughs.

Phaedra’s laughter is a more a breath. “Good morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh. Yeah. I guess. I tried. idk what this is really? wanted to write something self-indulgent and fluffy. idk if this fits. its just… silly. really.


	10. Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a prompt; but a random idea that spawned while rewatching cut scenes. Takes place during Heavensward 3.5. After the quest "Consequences".

Phaedra leaves Emmanellain in the care of the chirurgeons where he nurses his rapidly swelling jaw and his dented pride while sitting at Honoroit’s bedside. She knows they will be fine and well cared for, and given a chance to reflect, Emmanellain may even come to thank Thancred for his harsh lesson.

That lesson though is what worries Phaedra and has her searching for her fellow Scion throughout Ishgard. His words, spoken to Emmanellain with such bitterness and venom weave like a toxin through her veins and around her mind. Grief is a disturbing and vicious creature; a fact she knows well. It makes people act differently and say things they don’t mean to. It also, sometimes, causes them to speak the truth but in a more convoluted fashion. 

He has changed so much from the man she first met in Ul’dah. His time in the Lifestream and his isolation in the Dravanian Forelands, without magic and fending for himself; those experiences hardened him. Turned him from someone content with existing to someone determined to survive. But the loss of Minfilia broke his heart, and Phaedra doubts it has started to repair… or ever will, for that matter. 

Steeling herself, she searches various haunts and alleys throughout Ishgard starting the The Brume. She doesn’t find him in the manor, or wandering the Jeweled Crozier. It takes time, but after asking a few of the citizens she tracks him to The Forgotten Knight and a room he has rented of his own volition - not a good sign. 

Phaedra slides the barkeep a handful of gil when he is reluctant to point out which room Thancred is staying in. When that does not sway his tongue, his wife steps in and points it out. As Phaedra makes her way down the hall, she can hear the wife hiss to her husband: _“don’t you know who that is?!”_

Orange light spills out from underneath the door and Phaedra debates knocking or not. She stands a good few seconds, her heartbeat vibrating around her skull before she decides surprise might be a better option in this case and turns the handle. The room is small and sparsely decorated. It hardly keeps the cold out, but most of Thancred’s meager possessions are here. The man himself sits on the edge of a small, threadbare bed, sharpening and tending to the larger of his daggers with a whetstone. 

He glances at her with his uncovered eye as she stands in the threshold. He knew she was outside the door. Of course he did. She did nothing to disguise her footfalls or even quiet her voice. He probably knew she was in The Forgotten Knight the moment she stepped inside. 

“How fairs the boy?”

“Which one?” Phaedra closes the door. “Emmanellain is licking his wounds and his face is swelling nicely - he won’t let the healers touch it. Honoroit is being tended. He will recover in a few days from his injuries.”

“Good.” Thancred moves the stone over the keen edge of his blade, each stroke is steady and rhythmic. Phaedra can’t help but watch the muscles in his upper arms flex with each gesture. Had he _always_ been so well built? Was his musculature hidden beneath his tunic all this time? Or had his time in the wilds of Dravania brought about the physical changes in him too? Looking at him, with his tanned skin and his shaggy hair and the dour expression on his face, it’s as though he and the Thancred she first met outside Ul'dah are two different people. 

“Minfilia.” Phaedra says without thought or consideration. Thancred freezes, whetstone mid-stroke. A muscle in his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare and she watches him close his eye when the shock of her name has worn off. Phaedra crosses her arms. 

“What about her?” he asks, his voice icy. 

“What you said to Emmanellain about fighting tooth and nail to protect those you love, and failing… You know it’s not true, don’t you?”

There’s a pregnant pause where the air grows stagnant between them and it feels as though they are each waiting for the other to speak or act. Phaedra refuses to budge, waiting for an answer trying to hide the quake in her breathing. After a minute, maybe more, Thancred turns his attention back to his blade and begins to sharpen it again. 

Phaedra bristles, “don’t ignore me, Thancred.” She moves further into the room until she stands in front of him. “Talk to me; for Twelve’s sake, you have barely spoken about her since we learned she became the Word of the Mother. You _cannot_ shoulder this grief alone.”

“I have no desire to talk of this.” Thancred rises from his bed, putting the blade and stone to one side. Phaedra stumbles back a little when he rises. He towers over her and the look in his uncovered eye is like a hurricane brewing on the horizon. “You have no right to–”

“No right?!” Phaedra lifts her voice and squeezes her hands into fists at her side. “Thancred, I was _there_ when she _chose_ to follow Hyadaelyn’s call. I was the one who had to deliver the facts to you and Y’shtola and Alphinaud because she cannot come and explain herself to you all. To say I have no right is… Is unfair! We’re all grieving her. We all loved her.”

“You didn’t fight for her survival.” Thancred replies, a savage bite to his words and his lips curling back into a snarl. “You didn’t willingly stay behind to be certain of her escape, only for your attempt to fail. You didn’t protect her the way you should have!”

The words hit and land square in her chest as though she’s been struck there with one of her own punches. There’s pain. Pain, and sorrow, and anger… So much anger in his words and his thoughts. But it’s not just with himself. He doesn’t just blame himself for the outcome of these events…

“You blame me.” Phaedra realises, back-stepping as though she’s been shoved. “You blame me for not protecting her. Not stopping her.”

Thancred’s eye is narrowed, but he looks away from her. It’s more than enough confirmation that she is correct. He doesn’t need to say anything else, so he does not. Instead he turns away from her, gathers up his blade and sheathes it. 

Phaedra is shocked. Shocked and… _angry_. So angry, that it bubbles up and overwhelms her shock, overwhelms her grief, and overwhelms the hurt. It bubbles up and bubbles up and bubbles _out_.

“I never _asked_ to be the Warrior of Light. I never wanted to be special or fight for a God. I never wanted to be forced to run into fights with Primal after Primal, scraping through with my life each time.” Her voice is level and hard, despite the rage in each syllable. Still, she keeps her arms fixed at her sides and her hands tightly clenched until her nails bite into her skin. “I never asked to be forced to watch my friends, one-by-one sacrifice themselves as they bid me escape.”

“You don’t _have_ to blame me for Minfilia’s end, because I already blame myself. I blame myself for Estinian, for Hauchefaunt, for Ysayle. For every end to a tempered person. For every fatality caused because I wasn’t there or strong enough or clever enough. I blame and hate myself enough already; far more than you could possibly hate and blame me.”

She is talking to his back, but he hasn’t moved an ilm since she started speaking. His body is stiff, his shoulders square, but his head is bowed. Phaedra voice chokes a little; her breath is growing shorter as the anger fueled rant turns into pain she has fought to conceal. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Phaedra bites back a sniffle and her voice quavers. “I don’t know what you want me to do or what I _can_ do to make this right. I am sorry I failed to save her. To stop her. I am sorry you’re angry. I am sorry you feel like you failed, too. I–”

Her words come to an abrupt halt as Thancred turns and pulls her into his embrace. His arms are tight, his chest is warm and he smothers her against him. Phaedra can hear his heart racing. His breathing is uneven and hitches when it catches on what might be a sob; though she isn’t sure because his embrace prevents her from looking. She doesn’t care. Even as her anger and pain remain, the balm of comfort soothes them a little. 

“I know it wasn’t your fault.” Thancred whispers harshly, his voice low and choked with emotion. “I know she followed Hydaelyn’s call the way I know she would. She had a purpose, far greater than she or I ever expected… But it _hurts_. I failed her so many times. This feels like just another failure on my part. I keep thinking back… If only I had been more aware. If only I had stayed with you. If only the waterways were more secret. If only…” he sighs into her hair, “so many things.”

Slowly, Phaedra unfurls her fists and encircles his waist with her arms. She wants to say something. Wants to comfort him, but also wants to be angry with him for bottling everything up. She wants to be able to solve all his pain and hurt with words… But that isn’t how it works. 

Grief is a monster that cannot be so easily bested. It takes time, and energy, and communication. And while this conversation is not much; it is, at the very least, a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started losing steam half way though. Can you tell? *sighs*   
> Anyway… its an idea. Misplaced blame and or maybe not misplaced. idk. i swear I had a point.


	11. "Watch Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from a list. The prompt was sent to my by Eremiss on tumblr. 
> 
> This is very much a… more introspective thing? I think. I don’t really know. Basically, Phaedra has a very low opinion of herself. She thinks she’s the stupidest person in the room, all the time. And if she’s good at something, it’s luck.

“Watch me.”

Phaedra watches from a safe distance as Thancred takes up his defensive stance in front of the stationary dummy. She tries to pick up on the smaller aspects and details; the way he digs his feet into the ground for traction, how he holds his gunblade, where his eyes move with each precise strike. 

He is fast when he moves, faster swinging the blade over his head. The honed edge of the blade slices into the dummy. His next move follows as fluid as water; a mid-air spin to add further devastation to the next attack. He pulls the trigger; the blank ammunition explodes and sends a cloud of dust, straw and splintered wood scattering from the impact. 

His breathing is even when he looks across to her; hardly a hair out of place. He gestures with a simple nod of his head. “Your turn.” He moves away and points with the end of his blade to the sand. “Take up your stance.”

Phaedra grunts. 

Thancred is a task master unlike any other tutor she has had. He takes no prisoners with his criticism; and he pushes. He pushes and pushes and _pushes_ until she’s ready to snap at him. Only then does he let up. It’s no wonder Ryne is as skilled with her daggers as she is, if Thancred was the one to teach her how to wield them. 

Phaedra’s manatrigger is hefty. It doesn’t feel as natural to her as a short-sword and shield does. She is _trying_ , but it doesn’t come easily… this being at the fore and taking the brunt. She is better suited to dealing damage using kicks and punches with enough power behind them to cave a man’s skull in. But, she wants to learn. Wants to be better. Be worthy. _Feel_ worthy of the praise and the accolades and the faith put on her by the people of not only the First, but the Source. 

She feels her chest expand on a deep breath. The sand shifts beneath her feet; the resistance putting strain on her legs. The dummy is still. Thancred watches, arms folded and carefully scrutinizing every twitch of every muscle. She pushes off the sand lunging forward with the blade. Even before the first swing, she knows she has over reached. She is clumsy; like a new born foal finding its feet on unfamiliar ground. She tries to right herself, over-compensates and her weight veers too far to the left. Her swing goes wide. The blank bullet impacts the stone walls of Mord Souq. Mercifully, it does no damage to the construct. 

The sun burns; but her face burns hotter with humiliation and shame. _Why can’t she get this?!_ She fiddles with the wrap on the handle of her practice weapon. She avoids even looking at Thancred as she plants it blade-first in the ground and walks off. She walks through the settlement with her eyes downcast. The Mord meander around her, chatting and hawking their wares to visitors. No one speaks to her or stops her. 

Sweat trickles down Phaedra’s spine. She finds a place in the shade to sit and stew, tucked away from the main thoroughfare and out of sight of anyone who doesn’t know the place is there. She pulls her knees up to her chest and presses her face into her trousers. 

It shouldn’t be so hard. She has mastered dozens of new skills without this much trouble. Even Radovan, the Bozja warrior who first taught her the art of the gunbreaker was impressed with how quickly she picked it up… But somehow, the more complex methods of wielding the blade do not translate so easily for her. Not like they have for Thancred. By all accounts, his blade is just an extension of himself when he wields it. Every action moves smoothly and fluidly into the next. If he pauses, it is only to better gauge the situation around him, and adjust accordingly. He watches and understands and his mind is constantly calculating. 

Phaedra does not possess that skill. She cannot separate her mind enough to be able to focus on more than one thing. She is too stupid and slow for that. It’s why she’s good at nothing but hitting things. While she may have mastered skills that rely more heavily on the manipulation and application of aether; she doesn’t really understand it. That she can even manage those skills she puts down to Hydaelyn’s blessing, more than any actual aptitude on her part. She should just stick to hitting things; it doesn’t require any finesse or real skill. 

Any idiot can throw a punch, after all.

Thancred’s footfalls are heavy, but unhurried. Phaedra does not look up from her position. Not even when he slides down the wall and sits beside her. He clears his throat. He is probably expecting an explanation, but Phaedra has none to give. No words, and no excuses. She turns her head to face away from him. The sunlight makes her squint. 

“It is rather heartening to know the lofty Warrior of Darkness isn’t perfect first time at everything she turns her hand to.” He says, speaking as though they are in the midst of conversation. “Though I would suggest not giving up at the first hurdle.”

Phaedra curls in on herself in an effort to make herself smaller. 

“Perhaps Mord Souq wasn’t the _best_ place to practice. Sand is not the most forgiving of surfaces.” 

She wants to ask why he is being so casual about her failure. Why is he being kind, instead of tearing her down for not being good enough? Instead, she stays silent and keeps the threads of her voice tightly knotted. He’ll leave her to wallow in self-pity eventually. He’ll leave. The way everyone leaves. The way she expects him to each time they are together. 

“‘Tis not an easy weapon to master.” Thancred explains. There’s a noise of him shifting. His chin rests on Phaedra’s shoulder and she can feel him moving her hair behind her horn with his fingers. Something in her belly squirms gleefully. It’s a strange contrast to the sense of shame and loathing that has it’s grasp on her at that moment. “You are trying to emulate my style too much, instead of wielding the blade the way that best suits _you_.”

He nudges the back of her head with his nose and Phaedra slowly turns to look at him. She keeps her head on her arms, and can only meet his gaze for a moment before unease causes it to flit away. “I should just stick to hitting people.”

“Your fists are quite devastating.” Thancred leans close to her. Close enough that he can brush the bridge of her nose with his. It’s a gesture that is sweet and comforting in its innocence and intimacy. “But helping you master the gunbreaker skills… It allows me to spend time with you. Perhaps that is selfish of me, pushing you to master a skill just so we get more time together, but–”

“I don’t have the gift for it like you do.”

His brows lift in surprise. “You think it a _gift_ that I know how to fight in that style?” Thancred curves the corner of his mouth into a small, wry smile. “It was by necessity I learned, and it has served me well here in the First. But it has taken endless days of training myself to wield with the skill you see today.”

Phaedra lifts her head the tiniest bit and meets his hazel eyes, searching them for signs of deception or mirth. She finds none of either.

“I found myself face first in the dirt on more than one occasion, I promise you.” That pulls a small chuckle from her and Thancred smiles more genuinely. He inclines to press his forehead to hers. “Will you allow me to continue to be selfish?”

There’s a pause where Phaedra closes her eyes and relishes nothing more than his closeness, The sound of his breathing and the smell of him; gun oil, leather, sweat and somehow, _heat_. His hair tickles her cheek and she wants to melt into him. She gives a silent nod; yes, he can continue to be selfish with her. Despite her agreement though, neither of them make to move. 

It appears that lessons are over for the day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. That’s a thing. I don’t really know what kind of thing it is. But it is, undoubtedly, a thing. *shrugs*


	12. Kiss: in relief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kiss: in relief.  
> From a list of kiss prompts! This one sent by Eremiss on tumblr. 
> 
> Set after the attack on Rhalgr’s Reach; I don’t think it’s established where Thancred is during this period, so I feel like this works with the canon. However, I haven't played through that section for a long long time, I don't remember if this is when Krile is taken, or if it is later.

Rhalgr’s Reach is a mess of bodies, and fire and debris. It seems as though the Garleans left nothing untouched in their surprise attack and that those who survived did so only by pure luck. 

There’s a stench of blood in the air. Thancred can hear members of The Resistance wailing over the bodies of their friends and fallen comrades. He hurries through the throngs of people, his heart in his throat and something constricting around his chest. 

The area allocated for healers is overrun, to the point that people are recovering on bedrolls on the ground. People in white - healers - hurry from person to person doing their utmost to administer aid. Some look haggard and dead on their feet, but they push through their own tiredness and their own injuries to tend to the others. 

Gritting his teeth is all Thancred can do to fight the urge to yell. He _should have been here._ He could have done something, been of help. Been of aid… Or at least been a distraction long enough to let more people get away. This is a horrific blow to the Ala Mhigan Resistance. And the loss of life is just… It’s so much. _Too much._

How do the Garleans justify such barbarity? 

Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of the woman he is searching for. She goes from one person to another, handing out potions and water and food from a sack. The people she is with are survivors with minor injuries who have already been treated. Thancred makes an immediate U-turn and beelines for her.

 _“Phaedra,”_ he says, relief washing over him like a cool stream. She drops the sack as he brings her into his arms. She sags against him and digs her fingers into his jerkin as she hugs him back. _“When I heard about the attack I–”_ Thancred draws back enough to look her over. There are bags under her eyes, dried blood on her face, and a bruise forming on her cheek. Thancred cups her jaw and kisses her soundly. She's shaking against him. He is not sure if its tiredness, the cold, the shock of the attack or everything at once. He rubs her upper arms in an attempt to soothe and offer comfort.

“I’m fine,” Phaedra assures him in a voice that is less than convincing, but he doesn’t push it. “Y’shtola…” Her gaze moves beyond him to the healers quarters. “She’s… not in a good way.”

Ice fills Thancred’s veins. “How bad?”

“Bad.” Phaedra rubs the heel of her right hand over her eye. “She took a direct hit. So did Lyse.” There’s a pause. Thancred can see her considering her next words, so waits for her to find them. “Zenos yae Galvus led the charge.” 

It takes at least five seconds for the name to fully register. Thancred knows the name. Of course he does. _Everyone_ knows the name Zenos yae Galvus. He’s the crown Prince of Garlemald and his skill in battle is as well known and feared as his name is. That _anyone_ is still alive is just short of a miracle. 

“He is… _so_ strong, Thancred.” Phaedra continues. “I fought him with everything I had, and could barely make a dent.”

He searches his mind for something to say. Words of comfort, or words of encouragement but he comes up blank. There’s not much _to say_ in the aftermath of something so dire and horrific. Thancred strokes his thumb over her jawbone. “You’re in one piece. That’s what matters.” He kisses her forehead and offers a quick ‘thank you’ to the Twelve in his head. 

“There’s more.” Phaedra sounds weary now and exhaustion appears to have caught up with her when Thancred looks at her once more. “They’ve taken Krile.”


	13. Kiss: in a place of insecurity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of the prompts from the kiss prompt list. Sent by Eremiss on tumblr.
> 
> Just some downtime fluff.

Thancred glanced up from the page of his book at the sound of Phaedra humming thoughtfully. She was in the middle of painting, the canvas in front of her a spectrum of colour that was looking more and more like Ul’dah illuminated by fireworks. It was a _long_ time since he saw her paint. It was her method of unwinding and stress relief. There had been little time for her to sit and sketch or paint while in Othard, and with the liberation of both Doma and Ala Mhigo, even less time. 

Now, while there was a tenuous peace, she found time. And the pages of sketches and finished water colours were a testament to how much she had needed to let off steam. 

He bookmarked the page he was on and placed the tome to one side while admiring her from his seat. It was always pleasant to do this; to spend time together in her apartment in the Sultana’s Breath. There was little potential of interruptions, and they didn’t _need_ to talk. They could simply be together, doing their own activities in unison. 

It also allowed them both to dress down. He shed his practical clothing for a looser pair of pants and shirt. Phaedra favored shorts, a tank top and bare feet. The bare feet - and more precisely - bare legs, were what held Thancred’s attention and caused him to think back. Try as he did, he struggled to recall a time when he saw her legs uncovered as they were right then. In most circumstances she wore trousers, or leggings. The only time her legs were bare was in bed, when they were hidden by the covers, or in the bath. 

“Hm,” Thancred got to his feet and crossed the room towards Phaedra who tilted her head as a sign she heard him moving. “I like your attire today.” He said, slipping his arms around her waist and perching his chin on her shoulder. 

“My clothes?” Phaedra sounded confused. She tapped the end of her paint brush against her bottom lip, considering. “What about them?”

“I can see your legs, for one.” He offered a smile when Phaedra gave him a sidelong glance. “Forgive me, but you’re usually bedecked in trousers of some sort.”

“Yes, well…” She shifted, and Thancred noticed that she rubbed the back of her left calf with her foot. “When about half your whole leg is covered in hard scales that earn horrible rumors from other children, you would go to lengths to cover them, too.”

He frowned and watched as she swept a streak of metallic purple paint across the canvas to create an arc of a firework. “Rumors?”

“Mhm. That I had some kind of contagious disease. That eventually my whole body would be scales and I would be petrified. And if anyone touched me they would get infected too.” Her tone was detached and deceptively emotionless. Phaedra didn’t talk much about her childhood; and from the small details Thancred gleaned, he could understand why. It did not sound pleasant, or easy for her. _He_ had been one of the lucky few; an orphan who was taken in by a kindly benefactor. Not many were granted such a saving grace. 

“Children can be cruel.” He stroked his hands up and down her sides, stepping back a little. “You obviously know those rumors were just that.”

“I do _now_.” Phaedra put her brush down. “But… I never met another Au Ra before Yugiri. As a child I thought I was a freak, so I covered my scales - as much as I could, at least. Hard to hide the more obvious ones.” She gestured to her horns and to the scales that adorned her face. “I suppose some habits are hard to break.”

Thancred hummed thoughtfully, “I am pleased you feel comfortable enough to have your legs exposed around me. I–”

“You say that.” Phaedra eased herself out of his embrace and began to move towards the sliding door that separated the sleeping quarters from the main room. “But now I feel self-conscious, so I’m going to put some leggings on.”

He followed after her, his steps swift. “That is not necessary.” In an easy motion, he swept her legs out from beneath her and hoisted her up into his arms. Carrying her to the sofa, Thancred sat and placed Phaedra down beside him, her legs extended into his lap. 

She was blushing and breathless, the suddenness of his actions throwing her into a fight-or-flight response. Maintaining eye contact, Thancred stroked his hand along her shins, his fingers running along the scales that covered the outside of her calves. “I _like_ your scales.” He told her, guiding her to lift one leg. He pressed a kiss to the white scales in question, and followed that kiss with another, slightly higher on her leg, then another kiss beside her knee, manipulating her leg to bend. “I like _you_.”

Phaedra’s skin darkened on her face, the colour sweeping down her neck to her chest. Her breath was shorter now, lips slightly parted in what Thancred hoped was speechless surprise. 

“There is no reason to hide any part of yourself around me.” Sliding his arms around her waist, he eased Phaedra closer and into his lap. On instinct, her arms draped around him. Her fingers wound round the thin braid he kept his hair in, tickling the back of his neck. “In fact, I would much rather know all the parts of you; parts you like, and those you do not, than have you pretend or feel the need to hide them.”

“…Not that easy…” mumbled Phaedra, averting her gaze to the fish tank on the table. 

“I know,” Thancred tucked his fingers beneath her chin, and brought her focus back to him with a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “But, we could start with you staying bare legged.” He gave another kiss, this one just below her horn. “What do you say?”

She sighed and began to grow more relaxed within his embrace. Thancred continued to caress her legs with one hand, the other supporting her around the waist. As she considered his words, he left kisses along the scales on her cheeks trailing down to her jaw and neck. 

After a long silence, broken only by her breathing and the occasional weak, pleasurable little whine, she gave her answer; “very well. You win.”


	14. Kiss: in danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of the kiss prompts from the list.   
> Kiss: In danger, sent by Eremiss from tumblr. 
> 
> This takes place during Shadowbringers. Just following the fight with Vauthry. You know the moment.
> 
> I always felt the reactions of the Scions to the WoL turning into a Light Warden were a bit… underwhelming. So. *cough* I adjusted it a bit. And I also… adjusted the changes to the WoL caused by the Light. Making them more physical and grotesque, I guess.

Thancred dashed forward even as Emet-Selch disappeared into a cloud of black aether with the unconscious Exarch. The others stood around, struck dumb, by what had just transpired and before them, Phaedra was on her knees, retching.

“Urianger!” He shouted to startle his comrades from their stupor and grabbed Phaedra by the shoulders at the same time. “Y’shtola! Do something!” 

Under the bare parts of his hands, her skin was cold and clammy. Her whole body was furiously shaking and on the floor were small puddles of white ichor that dripped from her mouth. Her breathing was harsh, forced and shallow; every one appeared to take monumental effort and only made her shake more violently.

“Phaedra,” Thancred leaned closer, trying to get a look at her face but she kept her head bowed. He could make out a grimace of pain when she spat more of the white goo to the ground in front of her. Glancing around, he saw their companions still standing, shocked. Like gargoyles, and just as useful. “Don’t just stand there!” Roared Thancred, **_“do something!”_**

He cursed himself. His inability to manipulate aether was a pain at the best of times. At this moment, he would have given his life to be able to help. To quell Phaedra’s pain and the Light that was trying to take her over. The Light she was fighting so hard to resist. 

From the corner of his eye he could see Ryne with her arm out stretched, eyes closed and her expression drawn into one of intense concentration, ill-fitting someone of her tender years. Y’shtola, Alphinaud, Aliaise and Urianger too were lending their aid, channeling their own aether towards Ryne. 

_“…Than…. cred…”_ Phaedra’s voice came out as more of a gurgle, than anything else. His attention flew back to her before him and he managed not to recoil. She had lifted her head, and the white sludge was coating her chin and neck. Her skin had turned deathly pale, and he could make out veins glowing beneath as though her flesh were now translucent. Where her hands were on the ground, her fingers had extended and claws had scratched deep marks into the stone. And her eyes were almost pure white.

She was turning. Just as Emet-Selch had said. The Light was too much, and she was turning right in front of him. 

“Fight it, Phae,” urged Thancred, an edge of desperation in his voice. He kissed her forehead. “You _have_ to fight this!”

Her clawed fingers scraped over the hard ground creating more reels and deep marks. _“Away–”_ Phaedra sputtered, coughing more ichor onto the ground. 

“What?” He was only half-listening. The other half of his attention was on Ryne, the effort it was clearly taking for her to contain this blasted Light. He feared what this massive amount of strain would do to her. Would saving Phaedra mean losing Ryne?

**_“GET AWAY!”_ **

He rocked back on his heels, pushed by Phaedra shoving her hands against his chest. She toppled forward onto her palms, coughing and hacking thick spittle onto the ground. Thancred watched as she lifted her gaze; her brows low over her eyes and her teeth bared in a snarl, an expression that was animalistic and feral across her features. 

**“Get. Away.”** She hissed at him, ichor dripping down her chin and staining the front of her body. The Light was brighter now; fragments of it appeared to pierce through her body like cracks in a glacier. 

“I will not leave you.” Thancred declared, closing the space between them. Phaedra growled and gurgled. She lunged for him, a look in her eye that was not her. Thancred dodged the poorly aimed attack, and squeezed his arms around her shoulders, locking her in place. _**“Ryne! Hurry up!”** _He yelled, holding Phaedra’s wriggling and writhing form.

 _“Almost–!”_ Ryne’s eyes were squeezed closed, sweat running down her face and sticking her hair to her skin. The bruises and injuries obtained in the fight to reach Vauthry were darker and deeper on her now as she fought to contain the Light taking over Phaedra’s body. 

In his arms, Phaedra’s body lurched and writhed as though no longer under her control. She scratched at his clothing, trying to break free from his grip, savagely hissing and snarling as though a beast rising from the Seven Hells. Thancred locked his hands together behind Phaedra’s back. He could feel each of her stolen ragged breaths, hear the gargling sound when she struggled and wriggled and tried to break free. He pressed his weight into his feet, pushing and yanking her this way and that. Each time she found a weak point, he redoubled his efforts to contain her.

 **“There!”** Ryne gasped out. There was a blast of energy that impacted both Thancred and Phaedra. He saw Ryne stumble under the weight of it all, and seek support from Urianger. 

In his arms, Phaedra went utterly still for a moment. Rigid and cold. Thancred watched. Phaedra arched her head back, opened her mouth, and _screamed_. Though, it wasn’t a scream like Thancred had heard before. It penetrated not just his head, but his bones and shook him to the core. To call it a scream, was to be lying. It was a shriek, a wail and a howl, all at once. All pain, and fear, and anguish being released in one blood curdling, bone chilling sound.

Then, it was over. 

The sound echoed and Phaedra’s body fell limp against his. As his comrades recovered, Thancred quickly checked her hands, and her skin; all physical signs of transformation had disappeared - thank the Twelve. He got to his feet and hoisted Phaedra up into his arms. 

Ryne had managed to buy them some time.


	15. “Why is there a goat in my bathroom?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a shippy one; no Phaedra or anything. Just a fun silly look into Thancred's past.  
> Full credit for this idea of pre-game Sharlayan antics goes to @autumnslance (on tumblr) who wrote a piece between young Thancred and Yda. 
> 
> I kind of figured that Thancred would have some… growing pains on his early arrival in Sharlayan. That he would cause trouble to get attention, because any attention is better than none… So, this happened.

“Y’shtola.”

She froze and winced at the sound of her name and the voice that spoke it. Master Matoya’s unreadable tone that gave away no emotion, but made everyone’s hair stand on end. 

“Yes, Master Matoya?” Y’shtola turned, making her face as placid and blank as possible in the hopes she might trick the master of self-masking. “Is aught amiss?”

“Now why would you ask that, child?” Master Matoya made to approach. Her gait was slow, casual. No hint of the irritation Y’shtola could just see brewing behind the old woman’s eyes. 

She cursed in her head. Another forty fulms and she would have been home free. She would have been in her dorm and above suspicion for the line of questioning she knew was coming. 

“Being polite.” Said Y’shtola, perhaps a little too terse. There was a flash in Master Matoya’s eyes and she looked down her long, narrow nose at Y’shtola. Sharp as a whip and twice as fast, she didn’t miss anything. 

“I must say I was surprised when I returned to my quarters this evening.” She said, eyes fixed on Y’shtola’s and not breaking her gaze. She spoke with that still, calm, quiet voice. The one that everyone dreaded. It was too… soft, for Master Matoya who was normally a font of sarcasm and sharp-tongued. For her to speak as though she was addressing an infant was reason enough to run. 

Y’shtola though, could not run. 

“Oh?” she lifted her brows to give the air of surprise. “Why is that?”

“I am glad you asked.” Master Matoya offered a crooked smile. “I returned and imagine my surprise when I saw a goat in my bathroom.” 

Y’shtola bit the inside of her cheek. _Don’t laugh. Do not laugh._ She told herself. “Indeed?”

“Yes.” Master Matoya nodded once, sagely, as though divulging the wisdom of the ages, rather than searching her student for deception. “And I said to myself, ‘why is there a goat in my bathroom’?”

“A logical question to ask.” 

“I know _I_ did not conjure the creature, and as far as I know they graze on the hills some distance from here. Having asked some of the other students, I was informed you were seen coming from my quarters.” Master Matoya paused. A single bead of sweat slid down between Y’shtola’s shoulder blades. She kept her expression still. “Did you… _see_ anything, Y’shtola?”

Oh, Y’shtola saw something alright.

She saw the white-haired boy Master Louisoix recently brought to their shores carrying the bleating thing through the servants entrance. She saw him carry it straight to Master Matoya’s door. Watched him pick the lock to gain access, and watched him all but throw the poor creature into the room and close the door behind it. 

Part of her wanted to come clean. To put the blame squarely where it belonged. She didn’t know what Master Matoya had said or done to the boy - Thancred, she thought his name was - to earn this retaliation. Frankly, she didn’t much care. It was undoubtedly deserved given the antics the boy had been involved with since his arrival some weeks ago. 

However, she understood - a little - his reasons for acting out. What she knew of him was minimal, only that he was brought from the shores of Eorzea. Plucked from the streets of Limsa Lominsa to be given an education and an opportunity many others dreamed of. Master Louisoix saw something in the boy with silver hair and haunted brown eyes. 

Something anyone else had yet to see. 

It must have been difficult for him. To go from one extreme to the other. To be thrown into a world of academics, study and personal reflection. Since his arrival there had been a plethora of harmless pranks played on the students. Things that earned him attention and time alone with Master Louisoix; a commodity at the best of times. 

Growing pains, and culture shock, and perhaps he was feeling somewhat abandoned by the man who brought him here… Whatever Master Matoya had said or done to deserve a goat in her bathroom - Y’shtola hated to think of the mess - she could not condemn the boy to her wrath for the length of his stay in Sharlayan. 

“It was me, I am afraid to say. A conjuration spell that went awry.” Y’shtola explained, bowing her head. “I apologize for leaving the creature and not informing you sooner of the issue.”

“I see…”

Glancing up, Y’shtola watched her tutor rubbing her chin with her long fingers. She hummed thoughtfully, eyes glancing over Y’shtola up and down. “I will have to punish you for not telling me the truth right away.”

“Of course.” Y’shtola clenched her hands in her sleeves. Thancred was going to owe her for the rest of his life. “I expect nothing less.”

“An essay on the spell and why it went wrong.” Master Matoya began, her voice losing the soft edge and returning to the harsher, more clipped tone everyone was accustomed to. Despite the sharpness, Y’shtola’s whole body relaxed to the sound. “I expect you to clean my quarters - by hand - of goat droppings and destruction by weeks end.”

“By hand?” Y’shtola gaped. She was accustomed to enchanted brooms and mops doing the cleaning. By hand, it would take her…

“By. Hand.” Master Matoya’s words had an air of finality. “Perhaps you could ask Master Louisoix’s new protogé to assist you.” She turned and began to walk back the way she came. “I understand he has found himself at a loss since his arrival. Perhaps some hard work will give him something to focus on.”

Y’shtola waited until Master Matoya was gone before she released a breath she was holding. She turned and carried on her way towards her dorm room, peering down at the palms of her hands. If Thancred thought _she_ was going to clean up _his_ mess alone, he had another thing coming. 


	16. “I think you are the sweetest thing.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from eremiss on tumblr. :]
> 
> There’s a quest in the Crystarium that spawned this idea. So. Blame that?

The sight that greets Thancred as he walks into The Wandering Stairs is one he never thought to see. So surprising is it, that he stops in his tracks and stares for a moment before it clicks in his brain that: yes, he is seeing what he thinks he is seeing. Yes, he is awake and therefore this is not a dream. And no, definitely not a hallucination. 

It shouldn’t stop him the way it does, but he’s shocked and something wraps around his heart and squeezes. 

It’s a simple scene. Something going unnoticed by other patrons of the tavern, undoubtedly due to how normal and mundane it truly is. Phaedra is sitting on a love seat, and Ryne is beside her, kneeling on the other seat. In Phaedra’s arms is a swaddled bundle, from which two small arms are reaching up with tiny grasping hands. Ryne coos and fawns over the infant, clearly besotted and enthralled, even from a distance. 

As he approaches, he glances around the Stairs, looking for the parents - he spots them by the bar, surrounded by friends and talking animatedly while regularly looking over to the Warrior of Darkness, the Oracle of Light, and the infant. Clearly, they’re enjoying a moment’s respite from being parents and are happy to leave their precious child in the hands of two so well known heroes. 

Ryne spots him and hops up off the seat. “Thancred look!” She grasps him by the wrist, pulling him in the direction he was already walking, “it’s a baby!”

“Aye. I see that.” He sits beside Phaedra and leans towards her. For comfort he slides his arm over the back of the couch and behind her shoulders. The baby is tiny and pink. He would guess not more than a sennight old. There’s a thin, feathery layer of hair peeking out from the blankets, and big blue-green eyes stare back at him. “Does it have a name?” 

“ _Her_ name is Asha.” Ryne tells him. She’s leaning over so she can keep looking. “I think you are the sweetest thing!” She coos again, wriggling her fingers just out of reach of Asha’s hands. 

“And,” Thancred clears his throat, “how, may I ask, did you come into the acquaintance of Asha?” His question is directed at Phaedra, but she only glances at him from the corner of her eye before her gaze is brought back to the baby.

“Phaedra helped in the delivery.” Ryne informs him, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“You’re exaggerating.” Phaedra tells her gently. “I bumped into Asha’s father before she was born. He had been… ejected from their home by the midwife because he was causing so much panic. He asked if I would speak on his behalf to be allowed back in, but by the time we arrived Asha had come into the world.”

“I see.” Thancred clicks his tongue a little. It seems strange, to him, that a perfect stranger would ask another perfect stranger to speak on their behalf… But, maybe the man recognized Phaedra as the Warrior of Darkness. And, it’s not as though she hasn’t been asked strange favors in the past. 

“Thancred, you should hold her!” Says Ryne, sitting on the table and leaning close. 

“Ah,” he recoils a little. “But Phaedra is doing such an excellent job.”

Ryne pouts, “but I bet you’re a natural.”

Thancred laughs airily, “I _really_ bet I am not.”

“Don’t force the matter, Ryne.” Phaedra tells her with a soft voice, “if Thancred does not wish to hold Asha, then he does not have to.” Ryne’s expression hardens a little. Thancred squeezes Phaedra’s shoulder in thanks. “Go and ask her parents if they would like her back, I have things to do and I can’t sit all day.”

Ryne slaps her legs as she gets to her feet. “Fine.” She turns on her heel and walks towards the people crowded at the bar. 

“Thank you.” Thancred says, once Ryne is out of ear shot.

Phaedra adjusts the baby in her arms, “for what?” She slides her index finger into Asha’s little hand, and tiny fingers wrap around it. Phaedra’s smile is one Thancred has never seen before. It’s soft, and quiet, and untroubled. She holds the baby like it is the most normal and natural thing in the world. Like this is something she’s done a thousand times before. 

He inches closer, gently guiding Phaedra towards him until she’s resting against his side. He nuzzles her hair, in a rare display of public affection and exhales a long breath. The noise around them fades into a dull hum. The people too, disappear into an empty void of nothing until it’s just them. The three of them. A family. A unit. It’s a dream. A beautiful day dream and one so far out of reach that it hurts to think about… But at the same time, something inside Thancred’s chest pines and _yearns_ for this. For the simplicity and solidarity of a family of his own. A wife he loves, and a child that is theirs. 

A child that carries his wit, and Phaedra’s good heart. That has her eyes, his nose, her lips, his hair. A child who has dimples when they smile, and a tail that betrays all their emotions before they learn to control it. A child that never needs to know hardship or the fear of someone backhanding them across the face. A child who never has to worry where their next meal is coming from. A child who is educated and surrounded by friends and loved. Above all, they are loved so much and so completely, that they never, ever doubt it…

But it’s a dream, he reminds himself. A dream that is unlikely to ever be anything more than that. It is pretty, and wonderful, and impossible.

Thancred’s throat is thick with emotion when he hears footsteps approaching. His eyes are watering and he takes a moment to swallow down on the stone at the back of his throat and to rub his eyes. He kisses the top of Phaedra’s head for good measure. 

Asha’s parents, a hyuran woman and elezen man approach and the woman takes Asha from Phaedra’s arms. 

“Thank you,” she says, smiling broadly. “For everything.”

Phaedra tilts her head, “I didn’t do anything but watch her for you.”

“Oh no!” The man gushes, “for everything. Because of you Asha will grow up in a world without Sin Eaters. No Light Wardens, no blasted Light. Because of–”

“Dear,” the mother cuts him off with a gentle tone that speaks to experience. The man stops and his ears droop a little. The woman smiles at Phaedra once more, “thank you.” 

They leave and head in the direction of the Pendants. Phaedra grasps Thancred’s hand and leans against him, sighing. He hugs her to his side and rests his chin on top of her head.

It’s several minutes before either of them speak. “Do you ever think about it?” Phaedra asks. Thancred does not need to guess to what she is referring. 

He lies. “Not really.” An invisible hand squeezes around his throat. He swallows hard. “Do you?”

“Not really.” Phaedra shrugs. Thancred closes his eyes. She is lying, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there’s that. I feel like, given Thancred’s penchant for adopting kids, he would want a family of his own. But, being a Scion and also Phaedra being the Warrior of Light, its not like its something that would be immediately doable. 
> 
> I doubt the Ascians and Garlemald would pause their machinations for nine months. Y’know? So. This is a bit more melancholy than I initially anticipated. But I still like it.


	17. …on a place of insecurity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from tumblr, this from an anon. :]

Thancred wipes the mirror with the palm of his hand, swiping away the condensation so he can see the smeared version of himself reflected back. It is not a _bad_ reflection, by any means. His hair may be longer, and his skin may have darkened from his time in the wilds of Dravania; but it is still him in the mirror. Same facial structure. Same hair. Same nose. Same mouth. Same eyes. 

Ah…

Except, they are _not_ the same.

He wears the bandanna so much he sometimes forgets his eyes are different colours now. It should not be so easy to forget, after all he can no longer see out of one eye. But knowing that, and actually seeing the physical change is something different. It unsettles him. For some reason he cannot quite fathom or comprehend the milky-white eye that stares back at him in the mirror unmoors him. 

There are payments to be made upon entering the Life Stream before one’s time. The price he could have paid could have been far worse. The loss of sight in one eye is bearable, as is losing his ability to manipulate aether. Although the latter is far more troublesome and frustrating that he cares to admit. Still, he could have lost more. 

Still, it bothers him, to see the face in the mirror staring back at him and not be able to entirely recognize it. Maybe it is less the change of colour in his eye, and more _other_ things. More subtle things. Things only he has noticed. The way his jaw is almost always clenched these days. The furrow of his brow being more pronounced and constant. How hard he finds it to smile or laugh any more. Some how, the things that used to bring him mirth no longer do. 

Things have changed.

 _He_ has changed. He struggles to know whether it is for the better, or for the worse. If finding him in the Dravanian Forelands was beneficial to his friends and comrades, or if he should have stayed there. He can still fight. Can still sneak and spy and infiltrate. He can still be useful. But something… Something feels off. Something he cannot put his finger on. Something that is so close that it glimmers in his mind sometimes, but in a flash it is gone. 

Its just his sight. Just his sensitivity to aether. But if feels as though he is missing a part of himself. Like there is a gaping hollow wound somewhere inside him that cannot be reached and cannot be balmed. 

Thancred sighs and turns away from the mirror. He dries off, dresses quickly and is braiding his hair as he begins looking for his bandanna. He spots it being drawn from one of Phaedra’s hands into the other as she reads the missive open on the desk in front of her with a hard expression. 

“Phae,” he holds his hand out expectantly. He keeps his gaze averted, scanning the room for nothing in particular. When she lays the material in his palm he closes his fingers around it and gets to work tying it in place. Its strange, and almost funny, that he feels strange without the material clasped around his head and covering his eye. 

He wet hair dampens the fabric. He sits on the edge of his bed, the frame creaking beneath his weight, and fiddles with the material. His fingers fumble with the fabric. The knot he makes comes loose as soon as he moves his hands away and he grunts with annoyance. 

“Here,” Phaedra appears in his periphery and steps into his space, standing between his parted legs. “Let me.” He allows her to take the bandanna from him and drops his arms into his lap. Head tilted back, Thancred closes both eyes as Phaedra gently puts the fabric in place and ties it with deft fingers. She tightens the knot, and does a second knot for good measure. 

When she is finished she draws her fingertips - light and feathery - over his face. Along his jaw and to his chin. Her lips touch his in a kiss that is chaste and coy and makes his stomach flutter the way no one else’s kisses ever have. Thancred slowly opens his eyes. He manages to force a small smile. Phaedra quirks her head to one side. He can feel her fingers stroking the scruff of his beard and along his jaw. 

“It… ah,” Thancred stops, unable to find the words to explain. How does one explain to someone else how strange it feels to see one’s reflection and not fully recognize the person staring back? How can be explain the vast wound inside him that is raw around the edges and he cannot begin to heal? What would she say or do if she knew the depth of this… _loathing_ he had dwelling inside him? He clenches his teeth against the words he wants to say. “Thank you.”

Phaedra blinks at him owlishly, once, twice. He can see her trying to understand what he is hiding. Trying to know what he does not want her to. The sensation of her fingers pushing through his hair makes him close his eyes. Her nails raking over his scalp with gentle pressure draw a sigh from him, and his whole body tingles. 

There is a moment of pressure on his covered eye and Phaedra strokes the space beneath with her thumb. Thancred’s heart leaps to his throat. The space behind his nose prickles and he clenches his hands in his lap. “You’re welcome.” Before she leaves his space, Thancred slides his arms around her and draws her closer. Phaedra wraps her arms around his shoulders and he nestles hist hair and face against her abdomen. He hides away from her, but wants her close. _Needs_ her close. He is desperate to talk. To expose the harshest, rawest and ugliest parts of himself… But he cannot. 

He _dare_ not. 

He does not risk it. Not with Phaedra. Not with Minfilia. Not with anyone. He will bury it. Bury it all, like he buries everything. The way he has always buried things. He will bury it, and it will fester, and it will haunt him, but he will never talk about it. Just like his eye. Just like the loss of his sight and his sensitivity to aether. It is there. It is obvious. But he will never talk about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what this is, really. Its hella introspective? I think. 
> 
> I just wanna give the guy a hug. Like, all the damn time. I feel like Thancred has a lot of self-loathing issues. I relate. But, like, the idea of this comes from the fact no one talks about his eye. Or his sight. Or his inability to manipulate aether. Its never brought up in conversation in a cutscene or even in ambient conversation apart from a couple of times as a passing comment just after to meet him again in Heavensward. 
> 
> So, I figure like… Thancred just shuts down anyone who asks him about it or talks about it. And in a similar way, he shuts down all his feelings and worries and woes. 
> 
> … Just let me hug the poor guy, Square. Please?


	18. "Wait... are you braiding my hair?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from tumblr. :]
> 
> "Wait... are you braiding my hair?"
> 
> This honestly has nothing to do with the prompt, but the sentence crops up anyway. 
> 
> I wanted this to go a different direction; more like… “of course you have nightmares and ptsd, you’re the warrior of darkness and light, you’ve seen countless traumatic things. that you haven’t had a breakdown yet is astonishing but you can’t shoulder it all alone”

Phaedra jerks awake and bolts upright in bed, biting down on her hand just quick enough to suppress the scream that she feels in her throat. The scream she makes is muffled, and after a few seconds she unclenches her jaw and releases her hand. 

There is a metallic taste in her mouth; she doesn’t need to look to know she’s drawn blood. She’s too preoccupied with the frantic need to escape to care about the potential wound. Her legs and tail are tangled in her blankets. Her clothes are too tight and stick to her skin with sweat. She is panting, and frightened, and desperate to get away.

Unable to get her feet free she grunts. Her mind is all cloudy around the edges; like she can’t think clearly or remember. Her breathing is short and sharp. Her lungs burn, her muscles are aching. Her body is acting as though she just fought a Primal - but she didn’t. She _hasn’t_. She is just terrified.

A weight presses on her shoulders from behind her. She starts, and starts desperately trying to scramble away. “Nononono– Letmego– ** _Letmego!_** ”

“Hey. Hey!” Arms close around her, binding her own to her sides, and a strength overpowers her tired and aching limbs with ease. “Breathe, just breathe…” Lips move against her horn. The tone of voice is low. So low she wouldn’t hear it if it wasn’t spoken directly to her in that fashion. His grip slackens a little. She wriggles, unwilling to trust the voice she knows. “Easy… Easy… You are safe…”

A broad chest presses to her back. Phaedra’s breathing shakes while she makes futile attempts to calm herself. The arms around her move. One upwards, the palm of a large hand presses to her clavicle, the other remains around her waist keeping her back in contact. 

“You’re alright… It was a nightmare. I’m here.”

His chest moves with each breath. Inhale…. Exhale… Inhale… Exhale. The pressure on her chest helps. She makes herself follow the pattern of his breathing and his instruction. Bit-by-bit her mind clears. The muffled and fuzzy feeling around it recede and she starts to remember and recognize her surroundings.

She is in the Empty. Ryne and Gaia are sleeping in one tent. Urianger has one for himself. Thancred has his own too, but has chosen to sleep in Phaedra’s tent with her. In the morning they continue their bringing elements back to this barren place. After facing both Ifrit and Garuda, tonight was meant to be restful. 

The pressure on her chest lifts. “Better?” Thancred is only slightly visible. Phaedra manages to nod. She is embarrassed, and also still afraid. Her nightmare is still there, clinging on in the recesses of her mind. Just waiting for her to fall asleep again so the torture can continue. “Wait a moment.” 

Phaedra misses the weight of his chest on her back as soon as it is gone. She tries to fight the way her body is quaking; but its too much. Her teeth chatter and she hugs her arms around herself protectively. She can hear rustling behind her. A squeak of an oil lamp, the strike of a match. A moment of dim orange light that grows bigger once the lamp wick is ignited. Thancred extinguishes the match and returns to his place behind her.

He doesn’t speak - and for that Phaedra is grateful. Thancred does not offer empty platitudes or promises. He does not try to fix things he knows he cannot possible fix. He never speaks, unless there is a reason to speak or something worth saying. That he is there, a presence and comfort, is enough. But Phaedra _needs_ to speak.

“M’sorry.” Its the only thing she can think of to begin with. “F’waking you.” Her tongue feels heavy and her words slur together. 

“Light sleeper, remember?” Thancred strokes his fingers through her loose hair, before he eases it over her left shoulder, so he can perch his chin on her right. As before, his lips are pressed against her horn. He speaks so low that it’s almost inaudible, but with his mouth so close, she can make out his words though sound and feel. 

“I think Emet-Selch was right.” She tells him after a few minutes. Her eyes are burning. She is exhausted. Her body. Her mind. Her emotions. Every part of her is drawn and wrung out. Stretched to the limit and ready to snap. It never stops. It never ends. She finishes dealing with one crisis, and another arises. “One day,” Phaedra swallows thickly, “one day it will all be too much. I may not become a Light Warden, but I will lose control. Become a mindless machine bent on destruction.”

“That won’t happen.” Thancred believes in her so much it makes her ashamed to doubt his conviction. “I will not let that happen.”

“You might not be able to stop it.” Phaedra runs her fingers over the small puncture wounds in her hand and smears blood over her skin. “I felt it a little, before, when the Light was beginning to take over. After defeating Vauthry at Mount Gulg. And in Amaurot. It… It creeps back in during my dreams. That something stronger than me is taking over, and all I can do is scream into the void–”

“And watch while it unleashes untold devastation while you are powerless to stop it.” Thancred’s chin rests on her shoulder, “I know that feeling. When Lahabrea took control of my body I was… still _there_. I was conscious inside my body. I could see everything. Feel everything. But…”

Phaedra shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”

He looks at her, and his hazel eyes move over her face. “When these dreams come, those feelings, let me shoulder that burden.”

“Thancred, you have enough to worry about.”

“I am more than capable of dealing with my responsibilities, and taking on some extra, if it will alleviate these fears you have.” He pauses. The air grows heavy the longer he remains silent and mulls his thoughts over. Phaedra patiently waits for him to continue. “I am probably the best equipped to understand those feelings of powerlessness, after all.”

Unable to think of what to say - and knowing both that arguing with him is pointless and that he is correct - Phaedra offers a small smile. She leans against his chest, and they remain silent for a while. She takes comfort in his company. His breathing remains steady, his heart beat is slow. He is sturdy. A safe haven n a turbulent sea. He holds her. His fingers lightly touch her skin to remind her of his presence. Phaedra’s eyes grow heavy, both her mind and body call out for sleep, but that thought alone it to jolt her from the pleasant draw of slumber into alertness. 

“I don’t want to sleep.” She announces to Thancred after jerking away from it for the third time. 

“You need to.” He gently tells her. “You have to rest, recover.”

“How can I rest if sleep isn’t restful?” her tone is more biting that she means it to be.

He is quiet a few moments and his brows knit together in pensive contemplation. “Lie down with me.” He goes to lay on his back. Phaedra does no follow. The cold invades the space his occupied like a phantom, and she shivers against the chill. Fire may have returned to the Empty, but it’s still a desolate and cold wasteland. Thancred knits his fingers between hers, “humor me.”

Phaedra considers. If she does not sleep, then it won’t make any difference. And if she does, then it will only be disturbed anyway. Either way, Thancred won’t lessen or increase her rest. She relents, more because her body is too tired to stay sitting any more, and lies down. 

Thancred extinguishes the oil lamp first. Then, he shifts himself and her around a little, until she is resting her horn against his chest. The thud of his heartbeat is slow and rhythmic. Matched with his breathing, its a strange kind of calming melody, the two functions melding effortlessly together. 

“Close your eyes, and focus on my heartbeat.”

She _almost_ rolls her eyes, but stops herself. He is trying to help. He is trying to help without magick and without aether. The way he helps when she gets migraines. He has developed these methods of coping. It would be remiss of her not to give his remedies a chance. 

Eyelids closed, she relaxes as much as she can against him. Forms and visions of the creature she could become loom in her mind as soon as her eyes shut. They press forward against her mind. Leering figures of power and savagery. The true potential threat the Warrior of Light could become, if left unchecked. Phaedra clenches her fingers into his shirt, and she hears herself whimper, curling away from the vision. 

“Focus…” Thancred’s voice breaks through the fear, and a light tug on her hair. “Focus on the sound of my heartbeat, Phae.” His voice is low, a gentle instruction and a steady tone that somehow pushes through the visions like a glimmer of starlight in a blackened, empty sky. She feels several more light tugs on her hair and some subtle movement of his arms. 

“Wait…” Phaedra crinkles her brow, “are you braiding my hair?” 

“Focus,” Thancred tells her, and there’s a sensation of something running down the bridge of her nose. His index finger. It eases away the tension in her forehead, and as he repeats the motion she can feel sleep blanketing her mind. The sound of his heartbeat, of Thancred’s breathing and the strange, but comforting harmony they create slowly lull her into a dreamless sleep. 


	19. can't think of a title...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. No title forthcoming. :|
> 
> I can’t sleep.
> 
> Silly fluff. 
> 
> Thancred reacting to the Neo-Ishgardian healer dress.   
> Also kind of hints at my own headcanon that despite not being able to use/manipulate/be sensitive to aether any longer, Thancred can still sense Phaedra’s because… Because soulmates or something? I’m trying to flesh that idea out.

Something, maybe lightning, ripples up Thancred’s spine and makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He glances at his bare forearm and can see the hairs there are all standing straight like soldiers too. It’s a tell tale sign that Phaedra is back in the First. Some attunement between the two of them that triggers when her aether returns. He knows he is no longer sensitive to aether, but does not have a better explanation for the sensations that trigger. 

He grins and closes the book on his desk. In the same motion, he swings in his seat, grabs his boots and tugs them on. He ties the laces as quickly as he is able, snatches his coat off the back of the door to his apartment and slides it on over his arms as he leaves. He is still shrugging it on as he hurries along the walkway of the Pendants towards the stairs down. 

She has only just arrived. It’s likely she’s still in the Plaza, or she may have gone to the Mean, or the Musica Universalis. She never goes directly to her apartment, so the thought of checking there doesn’t even cross his mind. 

Thancred nods and smiles politely at some of the other inhabitants. Neighbors he has taken little time to get to know in the five years he’s been in the First. As he walks passed two mystel who are in conversation, he glimpses a figure in pink and white in his periphery. He notes scales and horns: drahn then, and given their stature, most likely a woman. 

He reaches for the metal banister and his foot hits the top step. Something about the metallic sound causes his mind to flicker and freeze. It repeats images from the short walk he just took from his apartment to the stairs. He sees the drahn woman more clearly. He turns to peer over his shoulder. The drahn woman is still there, and he realises it’s _his_ drahn woman who is leaning on the wall with her arms lightly folded, an amused smile on her lips that is matched by the mirth in her aqua eyes. 

Retreating from the step, Thancred turns fully towards Phaedra and takes a moment to look her up and down. It’s no surprise he didn’t immediately recognize her, given her clothing is the antithesis to what he is accustomed to seeing her in. 

In place of trousers and a top, she is wearing a dress. White, off-the-shoulders, corseted, with a draping skirt around the back, that partly covers her legs. He can see a hint of improbably short shorts from beneath layers of frills and lace. Shorts paired with thigh high white stockings and simple white ankle boots. All partnered with Phaedra’s hair being loose and long, rather than tied back… She looks like a totally different person. 

Phaedra pushes off the wall and takes a few steps towards him, her arms open hands and palms up as if asking _“what do you think?”_ with the gesture. Thancred waits until she is close enough for him to grasp her hand. A ripple of… _something_ passes from her to him when their skin makes contact. He smiles when he notices her shiver; she feels it, too. He raises her hand and arm and leads her to twirl under his arm in front of him. The skirt of the dress flares out so fluidly when she moves…

“Very nice.” Thancred lowers Phaedra’s arm, but keeps her hand in his. “I take it this his new fashion on the Source?”

“Neo-Ishgardian.” Phaedra bounces on the soles of her feet and her tail swishes lazily behind her, brushing the fabric. 

Thancred shakes his head. “Should have known. The corset is very… Ishgard.”

“It’s called a battle corset.” Phaedra fingers some of the detailed embroidery across the hemline. Thancred notes for the first time all that is keeping her modesty is a flimsy bow tied across her breasts. “It’s not laced like a traditional corset. It’s more flexible.”

“I can see that.” If it was laced the traditional way, Phaedra would hardly be able to breathe let alone move as freely as she can. “A gift?” Thancred tries to make the question casual, but there is a certain bite to it. Aymeric has gifted Phaedra clothing in the past, and though she has assured him - repeatedly - he has nothing to worry about… It has been five years for him in the First, he can’t help the little bit of jealousy that flares in his chest. 

To her credit, Phaedra treats him to a gentle and patient look. He is thankful that she understands that he does not _not_ trust her. He just knows what men can be like. “A gift for myself.” She smiles up at him, all warmth and affection in her gaze. “I fancied trying something different.”

“It certainly is that.” Thancred laughs through his nose as Phaedra does another turn. “You look…” He tilts his head. How does she look? Beautiful? Radiant? Ethereal? Utterly and unashamedly alluring? Bridal? Like something out of a–

Wait. What?

Bridal?

Where in the Seven Hells did that come from?

Thancred’s chest constricts and a different sensation, this one cold and almost terrifying, slides down his spine. The dress certainly has… _aspects_ of bridal design. The tasteful ruffles and frills most certainly scream “suitable for a wedding” more than they scream “suitable for battle”. Still, that alone is not enough for Thancred’s mind to spring to matrimony. After all, that is the furthest thing from his mind. He and Phaedra have never discussed– And now she is looking at him expectantly as he combats his internal crisis. 

“Lovely.” He finishes lamely. Wasn’t he a _bard_ once upon a time? A master of words and wooing? One would scarce believe that now, if _lovely_ was all he could come up with. Gods, he is out of practice. 

Phaedra shakes her head with a smile, and her hair falls about her bare shoulders. If she is disappointed in his lack of effusive praise and colourful words, she does not show it. Thancred watches her glance about the walkway, checking for onlookers. Satisfied they are alone for the moment, she closes the space between them and rises onto her toes. Thancred cradles her jaw in one hand, meeting her lips halfway.

Her hands curl into the lapel of his white jacket. She goes to break the kiss, and pull away, but Thancred angles his head and deepens it instead, sliding his fingers back through Phaedra’s hair and brushing her horns. He is not about to accept one brief kiss before she goes about doing whatever she means to do. If he has his way, she will not leave his side until the next morning… Or the morning after that. 

Thancred breathes a little harder when he finally pulls away and his skin is all tingly and ignited with energy and - he supposes - aether surging through his veins. Phaedra eyelids flutter as she blinks back to her senses. They keep their displays of affection private, or minimal when in public. Limited to hand holding, and the occasional forehead kiss. Rarely - if ever - do they kiss in public, and _definitely_ not a kiss like the one they just shared. Thancred is not surprised to see her check their surroundings before she relaxes. He arms encircle her and he rubs between her shoulder blades. 

“Well…” Phaedra inhales deeply and lifts her brows. 

“I am happy to see you.” Thancred tells her by way of explanation for his… _enthusiastic_ greeting. 

“Really?” Laughs Phaedra, covering her mouth. He loves the way her nose crinkles when she laughs; he hasn’t heard that sound for a long time. Not genuine laughter; its soothing and reassuring to hear it. “I never would have guessed.” Thancred strokes a thumb over her cheek and touches the corner of her mouth before placing a delicate kiss there. Phaedra rubs her nose against his. “Missed you.” She informs him with a coy smile. 

“Hmm,” hums Thancred. “And you.” Being near her makes him relax. Tension he has carried with him since he arrived in the First melts away when Phaedra is around. She can make him relax by simply being in his space. He brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Have you anywhere you need to be?”

“Mm-mm.” Phaedra shakes her head and weaves her fingers through the hair at the nape of Thancred’s neck. “I am all yours.”

His stomach squirms, delighted, and butterflies erupt in his chest. Her words are music to his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehhh… endings. I’m never good at endings.  
> It’s now 3.30 in the morning. My eyes are burning. I think I started this at like… 2.15am? Gonna try and sleep now. 
> 
> Reblogs and comments are awesome? Toss a comm(ent) to your writer?! (I swear Imma make that a thing).


	20. Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is definitely a bit of catharsis for me. I needed a cry, and for some reason writing this made me cry. So… There’s that.
> 
> Phaedra has a lot of unresolved issues that stem from abandonment and generally never feeling worthy. This touches on that, and also her horrifically low sense of self-worth, given that she always believes she’s the stupidest person in the room.
> 
> I will write something soft and fluffy for her soon. She’s being put through the ringer at the moment. I’ll try and treat her to some fluff.
> 
> Set between ShB MSQ and 5.1-ish

The words on the page blur together. Despite his best efforts, none of what Thancred has been trying to read for the last bell has left an impression. The page open in front of him is the same page he started with. When he looks at the words, the print all melts and swirls until it’s an unreadable mess.

He knows the reason for his distraction is the tension that hangs in the air between himself and Phaedra. Between Phaedra and _everyone_. Since Emet-Selch was defeated is has felt as though she has thrown a barrier up around herself, blocking everyone from getting close. Even the intimacy they share has been affected. She does not let him near her; not to touch or even to kiss. They haven’t slept in the same bed for weeks.

He has tried not to let it bother him. After everything that happened, he can understand her desire for distance. Time to organize her thoughts and her feelings...

But he is worried. 

Worried about her pulling away from those who hold her so dear. She is pulling away from him... And he misses her. He misses their quiet, easy companionship, and he misses their long conversations over books he is reading. He misses listening to her mindlessly chatter as she sketches. Its a deep longing that pentrates into his gut and is twisted around by a fist. He is losing her, the way he almost lost her to the Light but different. That loss was more physical. This is... this is something so much worse, because he could fight a physical presence. 

Thancred rubs his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. He has been staring at her back where she is at the kitchenette so long he has not blinked and his eyes are stinging. He closes the book, slides it to one side of the table and rises to his feet. 

“Dinners nearly ready.” Phaedra does not deign to glance over her shoulder as he is accustomed. 

Thancred tilts his head and looks her over, wondering if he missed something that should have been obvious. An injury that was not healing properly. A broken scale... Anything that might give him an easy answer to the difficult question. There is nothing, though. No lifted scales, no infected wounds. Phaedra is hale and whole, physically if nothing else. 

“Phaedra...” Thancred leans on the edge of the table. 

“Could you set the table?” She gestures to the dresser against the wall. “You know where everything is.”

He glances across to where she pointed. Plates and cutlery all neatly displayed and cleaned. Placemats and napkins that will have to wait. “Can we talk?” He tries to keep his tone light and conversational, but even he is not convinced by his act. 

“Now?” she looks over her shoulder at him. Thancred levels her with his gaze. She sighs, removes various saucepans from hot plates, turns the heat of the oven down and turns to face him. “Something wrong?”

“You tell me.” Thancred exhales. His usual stance would be to cross his arms, but Ryne has taken to telling him it makes him look intimidating and stubborn - so he rests his hands against the edge of the table to keep from fidgeting. 

Phaedra lifts a brow, blinking several times. She tuts and shrugs. “I’m fine.” She gestures to herself by opening her arms wide. “Is that it?”

“Are you? Really?” Thancred pushes. He scuffs his heel over the flagstone floor. “You’ve been pulling away.” There is no other way to say it. No way to cushion the blow, and Phaedra prefers things to be said as they are and without being softened. His words clearly hit a mark because he notes how her shoulders tense a little. “I’ve noticed. We all have. We--”

“Good to know I’m still the topic of gossip and conversation amongst those of you so much more intelligent than I am.” Phaedra folds her arms. The snap to her voice does not surprise Thancred, he expected it. The words themselves though are a cause for concern. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m always the last to know anything.”

Thancred lets her words sink in. He gauges her expression; waits to see if she is surprised by the venom in her voice or the words she spoke. There’s nothing. No shock, or shame, or embaressment. Her expression is, if anything, defiant. Challenging him to tell her she is wrong. 

The worst part is... He _cannot._ He and the others often do discuss things without her and only inform Phaedra of what _they_ deem necessary. They have always done it for what they consider her benefit, so she can focus on the task at hand, rather than the bigger picture. Clearly a mistake on their part, and one that needs must be rectified.

“We are worried.” Thancred tells her. Then corrects himself. “ _I_ am worried.” It feels uncomfortable to admit it. Its raw and sincere, and allowing himself that is something he is still trying to get used to. 

“Well, don’t be.” Phaedra turns back to the kitchenette, her tail lashing back and forth like a rattlesnake. “I’m fine.” She pulls a saucepan towards her. “And if there was anything wrong it isn’t like you, or any of the others, would understand.”

Despite his best effort, Thancred folds his arms. “What is that supposed to mean?” he asks her, affronted. “Have you tried to explain what’s going on? If not to the others then at least to me? I could--”

“OH no!” Phaedra turns again, whip-crack quick and points a spoon in his direction. “No. _No._ You, of all people, _do not_ get to lecture _me_ about discussing my feelings and opening up. Not you. Not with your bloody suicide mission emotionally stunted bullswivery that almost cost us Ryne. And your secretive returning from Twelve-Knows-Where doing Twelve-Knows-What and seeing Twelve-Knows-Whom and refusing to discuss it.” The spoon waves in midair when she jabs it at him and Thancred can see Phaedra’s chest heaving. Her chin is shaking. Somewhere in her rant her eyes went glassy. “I will not take that hypocrisy. Not from you.”

Her words hit a bullseye in Thancred’s heart. He has never been one to discuss his feelings; and she is right. His dilly-dallying almost cost them Ryne. Almost cost Ryne herself. And almost cost him his life. It hurts. The truth does, but these are not shortcomings Thancred is not privy to. He knows his own faults, Phaedra does not need to point them out. That she has tells him she is deflecting. And her emotional response, while hard to watch, is proof positive she has been concealing something for some time. 

After a long silence Phaedra turns back to the stove. Her shoulders are up by her horns and her whole body is tight. Thancred pushes off from the table and approaches. She tenses when he places his hands lightly on her shoulders. 

“Phaedra...” he rubs his thumbs in circles at the base of her neck. Her body only stiffens further.

_“Don’t.”_

“Help me understand.” Thancred closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the back of her head. He continues to move his thumbs, slow and pressing as deep as her tight muscles will allow. He is pushing, he knows. She will snap, this is also knows. But he also knows she needs to snap. To unleash whatever it is that is so tightly tangled and knotted inside her. She needs to unleash it to begin putting it back together. “Please. I _want_ to understand.”

 _“You can’t.”_ Phaedra says in a strained whisper after a few moments. “The only person who could is gone and he is not coming back.” Something in her voice cracks. Thancred straightens. He releases her shoulders, steps back and gives her the space he can sense she needs. “He’s gone. And he was the _only_ person I could talk to about everything.” Phaedra bows her head and rests her fists on the edge of the cooker, away from the hot plates and pans. 

“Who?”

“Ardbert.” Phaedra gasps back a sob. 

A breath Thancred has been holding leaves him, and something tight around his chest relaxes. The barrier has been broken by uttering that one word. One name. It hurts. It hurts to hear and see the woman he loves in pain and grieving. It hurts him, in a petty way, that her pain comes from thoughts and feelings she could share with someone else, that she felt she could not share with him.

“He knew.” Continues Phaedra. Her shoulders quake and she sniffles through her words. “He understood. What it is like to run into battle after battle never sure you’re going to come out of it. To be an instrument in a war you never even knew what going on! He knew how hard it is to keep going when you have the survival of an entire _world_ resting on your swiving shoulders. He knew what it was like. He understood. He never judged me or told me off for feeling overwhelmed. I could talk to him... And now he’s gone. I have no one who understands.”

Tentatively Thancred reaches out towards her and brushes her elbow with his fingertips. He swallows hard, stepping closer and offering what comfort he can in simple touches. His ears are hot. He tightens his jaw, not allowing himself to speak. She doesn’t _need_ that. She needs to be listened to. And, more importantly, heard. 

“It isn’t fair.” Phaedra sniffs. Thancred watches her lift a hand to wipe her face. “I lose everyone.”

 _I’m still here._ Thancred wants to say, but doesn’t. This isn’t about him. 

She clasps her arms around herself, her back still facing him. “It feels like I’m losing my mind. I keep losing people over and over again. I’m a curse to anyone who comes into contact with me.”

Thancred touches her elbow again. “That isn’t true.”

“I hate it.” Phaedra curls in on herself, hissing the words. “I hate everything about it. It hurts _so much_ I can hardly breathe. To shoulder the fate of the First _and_ the Source, I only got through it all because of Ardbert. And he’s gone. He has the peace he deserves. And I’m still here. Grieving. And missing him. And... And I feel so swiving alone.”

Despite his vow to himself to let her get through this without his intervention, Thancred’s resolve cracks. The depth of Phaedra’s emotion sends a sharp pain keening through him, that he grasps her elbow and pulls her into her arms. 

“It isn’t _fair_.” Phaedra beats his chest with a small, angry fist; he can hardly feel the blows. Her cheeks are red and stained with deep tear tracks that have made pathways all the way down her neck. “Why did I get picked for this? Why do I have to watch people I love die or sacrifice themselves?” She punctuates her questions with more blows, until Thancred lays one of his large hands over hers, and slides their fingers together. “I hate it. I wish it was done. I’m so tired of fighting and... _and_ _losing._ ”

“I know,” Thancred sways them on the spot, his chin against her hair and his hand between her shoulder blades. “I know.” Phaedra buries her face in his neck. She sobs. Her body shakes with each sound as it rips from a deep, primal place within her. “You carry a burden no one should ever have to. A burden no one in their right mind would ask for.” He measures each word before he says it. He wants to comfort, not patronize or condescend. He is certain that deep down, underneath her grief and anger, Phaedra knows she is not alone, but reminding her of that is not the right course of action. 

“I would do anything to take away the pain and the pressure you feel... But I can’t. I can’t take it away. And you’re right.” Thancred shifts and uses tucks his fingers beneath Phaedra’s chin so he can speak directly to her face. She sniffles, tears still falling and eyes bloodshot from crying. He offers her a sad smile and brushes his thumb over her cheeks. “I don’t know the weight upon your shoulders; I would never be so arrogant as to presume I could know it. But you are not a curse.”

Phaedra snorts.

“You _are not_ a curse.” He says again with more conviction. “The people we have lost are carried with us in our memories, and our hearts. I carry Minfilia. Urianger carries Moenbryda. And you... You carry them, and more - including Ardbert - people who have helped you and guided you and fought alongside you, to help you become the woman you are.” Thancred kisses her forehead. He inhales deeply to settle his own emotions and collect his thoughts. When he feels ready, he meets Phaedra’s gaze and brushes his fingers back through her hair. “You are a blessing, Phae, not a curse.”

She does not believe him, he can tell that by the way her eyes flick away from his and she buries her face in his neck once more. Thancred holds and comforts her until she is calmer. They will talk more about this, about all the feelings she shared with Ardbert and everything she has kept bottled up since his _‘death’_ ... but not now. It is a wound that it still sore and has not even begun to heal. It will take time for that. Careful tending and gentle examination when Phaedra feels strong enough and ready to do so. 

Thancred only hopes he can be a source of support and comfort, when that time comes.


End file.
